Satire 
Antholo 


Collected  Jjx 

Carolyn  Wells 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 

From  the  library  of 
Henry  G0ldman,  E.S.  Ph.D, 
1886-1972 


A   SATIRE    ANTHOLOGY 


"   &4TIRE  should,  like  a  polished  razor  keen, 
U       Wound  with  a  touch  that's  scarcely  felt  or  seen. ' 


—LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


A 

Satire 

v|f  £K 

I  Anthology  | 


I 

>  f  Collected  by 

Carolvn  Veils 


Charles  Scribners  Sons 

1  9°5 

«M 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published,  October,  1905 


TO 
MINNIE    HARPER    PILLING 


NOTE 

ACKNOWLEDGMENT  is  hereby  gratefully  made  to  the 
publishers  of  the  various  poems  included  in  this  com- 
pilation. 

Those  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  James  Russell 
Lowell,  John  G.  Saxe,  Edward  Rowland  Sill,  John  Hay, 
Bayard  Taylor  and  Edith  Thomas  are  published  by 
permission  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

The  poems  by  Anthony  Deane  and  Owen  Seaman  are 
used  by  arrangement  with  John  Lane. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co., 
are  included  poems  by  Bliss  Carman,  Charlotte  Perkins 
Stetson-Gilman,  Stephen  Crane,  and  Frederic  Ridgely 
Torrence. 

Poems  by  Sam  Walter  Foss  are  published  by  permission 
of  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepherd  Co. 

The  Century  Co.  are  the  publishers  of  poems  by 
Richard  Watson  Gilder  and  Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 

Frederich  A.  Stokes  Company  give  permission  for 
poems  by  Gelett  Burgess  and  Stephen  Crane. 

"The  Bunding  Ball,"  by  Edgar  Fawcett  is  published 
by  permission  of  Funk  and  Wagnalls  Company;  "Hoch 
der  Kaiser"  by  Rodney  Blake,  by  the  courtesy  of  the 
New  Amsterdam  Book  Co.  The  poems  by  James 
Jeffrey  Roche  by  permission  of  E.  H.  Bacon  &  Co.; 
and  "The  Font  in  the  Forest"  by  Herman  Knickerbocker 
Viele,  by  permission  of  Brentano's. 

"The  Evolution  of  a  Name,"  by  Charles  Battell 
Loomis,  is  quoted  from  "Just  Rhymes,"  Copyright,  1899, 
by  R.  H.  Russell. 

"He  and  She,"  by  Eugene  Fitch  Ware,  is  published 
by  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Chorus  of  Women    ....  Aristophanes.      ...  3 

A  Would-Be  Literary  Bore.      .   Horace 4 

The  Wish  for  Length  of  Life     .  Juvenal 6 

The  Ass's  Legacy     ....   Ruteboeu}      ....  7 

A  Ballade  of  Old-Time  Ladies  Francois  Villon  ...  1 1 

(Translated  by  John  Payne). 
A  Carman's  Account  of  a  Law- 
suit  Sir  David  Lyndsay  .      .  12 

The  Soul's  Errand    ....   Sir  Walter  Raleigh   .      .  13 

Of  a  Certain  Man     ....   Sir  John  Harrington     .  16 

A  Precise  Tailor Sir  John  Harrington      .  16 

The  Will John  Donne  .      .      .      .  18 

From  "King  Henry  IV"      .      .    William  Shakespeare      .  20 

From ' '  Love' s  Labour' s  Lost ' ' .    William  Shakespeare      .  2 1 

From  "As  You  Like  It"      .      .    William  Shakespeare      .  22 

Horace  Concocting  An  Ode      .    Thomas  Dekker  ...  23 

On  Don  Surly Ben  Jonson    ....  24 

The  Scholar  and  His  Dog    .      .  John  Marston     ...  25 

The  Manly  Heart     ....   George  Wither     ...  26 

The  Constant  Lover       .      .      .  Sir  John  Suckling    .      .  27 

The  Remonstrance  ....  Sir  John  Suckling    .      .  28 

Saintship  versus  Conscience      .   Samuel  Butler     ...  29 

Description  of  Holland  .      .      .  Samuel  Butler     ...  30 

The  Religion  of  Hudibras    .      .   Samuel  Butler     ...  31 

Satire  on  the  Scots    ....  John  Cleiveland  ...  32 

Song Richard  Lovelace      .      .  34 

The  Character  of  Holland  .      .  A  ndrew  Marvell ...  35 

The  Duke  of  Buckingham  .      .   John  Dryden.      ...  37 

OnShadwell John  Dryden.      ...  38 

Satire  on  Edward  Howard  .      .   Charles   Sackvillr,    Earl 

of  Dorset    ....  39 
St.    Anthony's   Sermon   to   the 

Fishes Abraham  d  Sancta  Clara  39 

Introduction  to  the  True-Born 

Englishman Daniel  Defoe.      ...  41 


Contents 

PAGE 

An  Epitaph Matthew  Prior    ...  43 

The  Remedy  Worse  than  the 

Disease Matthew  Prior    ...  45 

Twelve  Articles Jonathan  Swift  ...  46 

The  Furniture  of  a  Woman's 

Mind Jonathan  Swift  ...  48 

From  "The  Love  of  Fame"      .  Edward  Young  ...  50 

Dr.  Delany's  Villa    ....   Thomas  Sheridan     .      .  52 

The  Quidnunckis     ....  John  Gay       ....  54 

The  Sick  Man  and  the  Angel    .  John  Gay      ....  55 

Sandys' Ghost Alexander  Pope  .      .      .  57 

From  "The  Epistle  to  Dr.  Ar- 

buthnot" Alexander  Pope  ...  60 

The  Three  Black  Crows      .      .  JohnByrom  ....  63 

An  Epitaph George  John  Cayley  .      .  64 

An  Epistle  to  Sir  Robert  Wai- 
pole      Henry  Fielding  ...  65 

The  Public  Breakfast     .      .      .   Christopher  Anstey  .      .  67 
An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a 

Mad  Dog Oliver  Goldsmith      .      .  72 

On  Smollett Charles  Churchill     .      .  73 

The  Uncertain  Man.      .      .      .   William  Cowper .      .      .  74 
A  Faithful  Picture  of  Ordinary 

Society William  Cowper .      .      .  74 

On  Johnson John  Wolcott  (Peter  Pin- 

<*<"•) 75 

To  Boswell John  Wolcott  (Peter  Pin- 
dar)        76 

The  Hen Matt.  Claudius  ...  77 

Let  Us  All  be  Unhappy  To- 
gether   Charles  Dibdin  ...  78 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray   .      .  John  O'Keefe      ...  79 

The  Country  Squire       .      .      .    Tomas  Yriarte    ...  80 

The  Eggs Tomas  Yriarte    ...  82 

The  Literary  Lady  ....  Richard  Brinsley  Sheri- 
dan   84 


Contents 

PAGE 

Sly  Lawyers George  Crabbe     ...  85 

Reporters George  Crabbe     ...  85 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or 

the  Rigidly  Righteous      .      .   Robert  Burns.      ...  86 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer       .      .      .  Robert  Burns.      ...  88 

Kitty  of  Coleraine     ....   Ed-war d  Lysaght .      .      .  91 
The  Friend  of  Humanity  and 

the  Knife-Grinder      .      .      .  George  Canning ...  92 

Nora's  Vow Sir  Walter  Scott  ...  94 

Job Samuel  T.  Coleridge.      .  95 

Cologne •Samuel  T.  Coleridge.      .  96 

Giles's  Hope Samuel  T.  Coleridge.      .  96 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim.      .      .   Robert  Southey    ...  97 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne   .      .      .   Robert  Southey    ...  99 

The  Poet  of  Fashion       .      .      .  James  Smith .      .      .      .  101 

Christmas  Out  of  Town       .      .  James  Smith.      .      .      .  103 

Eternal  London Thomas  Moore    .      .      .  105 

The  Modern  Puffing  System     .    Thomas  Moore    .      .      .  106 

Lying Thomas  Moore    .      .      .  108 

The  King  of  Yvetot  (Version  of 

W.M.Thackeray)     .      .      .  Pierre  Jean  deBeranger.  109 

Sympathy Reginald Heber  .      .      .  in 

A  Modest  Wit Selleck  Osborn     .      .      .  112 

The  Philosopher's  Scales     .      .   Jane  Taylor .      .      .      .  114 
From  "The  Feast  of  the  Poets"    James      Henry      Leigh 

Hunt 116 

Rich  and  Poor;  or,  Saint  and 

Sinner Thomas  L.  Peacock  .      .  117 

Mr.  Barney  Maguire's  Account 

of  the  Coronation ....   Richard     Harris     Bar- 
ham     119 

From  "The  Devil's  Drive"       .    Lord  Byron  ....  123 
From     "  English    Bards    and 

Scotch  Reviewers"    .      .      .   Lord  Byron    .      .      .      .  125 

To  Woman Lord  Byron    ....  126 

A  Country  House  Party.     .      .  Lord  Byron    .      .     .     .  127 

[xi] 


Contents 

.PAGE 

Greediness  Punished     .      .      .  Friedrich  Riickert     .      .  130 

Woman Fitz-Greene  Halleck .     .  132 

The  Rich  and  the   Poor  Man 

(From  the  Russian  of  Krem- 

nitzer) Sir  John  Bo-wring     .      .  132 

Ozymandias Percy  Bysshe  Shelley      .  134 

Cui  Bono Thomas  Carlylc  .      .      .  135 

Father-Land       and       Mother 

Tongue Samuel  Lover      .      .      .  135 

Father  Molloy Samuel  Lover      .      .      .  136 

Gaffer    Gray    (From    "  Hugh 

Trevor" Thomas  Holcrojt      .      .  139 

Cockle  v.  Cackle      ....   Thomas  Hood     .      .      .  140 

Our  Village Thomas  Hood     .      .      .  145 

The    Devil    at    Home    (From 

"The  Devil's  Progress").      .    Thomas  Kibble  Hervey  .  149 

How  to  Make  a  Novel    .      .      .   Lord  Charles  N eaves      .  150 

Two  Characters       ....  Henry  Taylor     .      .     .  151 

The  Sailor's  Consolation     .      .   William  Pitt  ....  152 
Verses  on  seeing  the  Speaker 

asleep   in   his   Chair  during 

One  of  the  Debates  of  the 

First  Reformed  Parliament  .   Winthrop  M.  Praed  .      .  154 

Pelters  of  Pyramids        .      .      .  Richard  Hengist  Horne.  155 

The  Annuity George  Outram    .      .      .  156 

Malbrouck Translated     by    Father 

Prout 161 

A  Man's  Requirements.      .      .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing    163 

Critics Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing    164 

The  Miser Edward  Fitzgerald    .      .  166 

Cacoethes  Scribendi      .      .      .  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  166 
A  Familiar  Letter    to    Several 

Correspondents    ....   Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  167 

Contentment Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  171 


[xii] 


Co nt  ent  s 

PAGE 

How  to  Make  a  Man  of  Con- 
sequence     Mark  Lemon.      .      .  .  173 

The  Widow  Malone.      .      .      .  Charles  Lever      .      .  .  173 

The  Pauper's  Drive.      .      .      .   T.Noel 175 

On  Lytton Alfred  Tennyson       .  .  177 

Sorrows  of  Werther        .      .      .   William    Makepeace 

Thackeray.      .      .  .  178 
Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the 
Ball  Given  to  the  Nepaulese 
Ambassador    by  the    Penin-  William  Makepeace 

sular  and  Oriental  Company.       Thackeray.      .      .  .  179 
Damages,        Two    ,    Hundred  William  Makepeace 

Pounds Thackeray.     .      .  .  182 

The  Lost  Leader      ....  Robert  Browning      .  .  186 
The  Pope  and  the  Net   .      .      .  Robert  Browning      .  .  188 
Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Clois- 
ter   Robert  Browning      .  .  190 

Cynical  Ode  to  an  Ultra-Cyni- 
cal Public Charles  Mackay       .  .  192 

The  Great  Critics     ....   Charles  Mackay       .  .  193 

The  Laureate William  E.  Ay  tour.  .  .  194 

Woman's  Will John  Godfrey  Saxe  .  .  196 

The  Mourner  a  la  Mode      .      .  John  Godfrey  Saxe  .  .  197 

There  is  no  God        ....  Arthur  Hugh  Cloug]i  .  199 

The  Latest  Decalogue    .      .      .  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  .  200 

From  "A  Fable  for  Critics"      .  James  Russell  Lowell  .  201 

The  Pious  Editor's  Creed    .      .  James  Russell  Lowell  .  206 

Revelry  in  India Bartholomew  Dowling  .  210 

A  Fragment Grace  Greenwood     .  .  212 

Nothing  to  Wear       ....   William  Allen  Butler  .  213 
A  Review  (The  Inn  Album,  By 

Robert  Browning)      .      .      .  Bayard  Taylor    .      .  .221 

The  Positivists Mortimer  Collins      .  .  224 

Sky-Making Mortimer  Collins      .  .  226 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy      .      .      .  Robert  Barnabas  BrougJi  227 

Hiding  the  Skeleton       .      .      .   George  Meredith.      .  .  229 


Contents 


Midges    ....... 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytton 

PAGE 

The  Schoolmaster  Abroad  with 
his  Son      
Of  Propriety       

Charles  Stuart  Calverley. 
Charles  Stuart  Calverley 

233 

Peace.     A  Study      .... 
All  Saints      
Fame's  Penny  Trumpet 
The  Diamond  Wedding 

True  to  Port  
Sleep  On        

Charles  Stuart  Calverley. 
Edmund  Yates    ... 
Lewis  Carroll      .      ,  r.  . 
Edmund   Clarence   Sted- 
man      .....' 
Frank  C.  Burnand    . 
W.S.Gilbert.      .      .     . 

236 

237 
238 

240 
247 
249 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe,  By 

a  Miserable  Wretch  .  .  .  W.S.Gilbert.  ...  250 

The  Ape  and  the  Lady  .  .  W.S.Gilbert.  ...  250 

Anglicised  Utopia  ....  W.S.Gilbert.  .  .  .  252 

Etiquette W.S.Gilbert.  ...  254 

The  Aesthete W.S.Gilbert.  ...  260 

Too  Late Fitz-Hugh  Ludlow  .  .  261 

Life  in  Laconics Mary  M apes  Dodge  .  .  263 

Distiches  .  .  .  •  .  .  .  John  Hay 264 

The  Poet  and  the  Critics  .  .  Austin  Dobson  .  .  .  265 

The  Love  Letter Austin  Dobson  .  .  .  267 

Fame James  Herbert  Morse  .  269 

Five  Lives Edward  Rowland  Sill  .  270 

He  and  She Eugene  Fitch  Ware  .  .  272 

What  Will  We  Do ?.  .  .  .  Robert  J .  Burdette  .  .  272 

The  Tool Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  273 

Give  Me  a  Theme  ....  Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  274 

The  Poem,  To  the  Critic  .  .  Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  274 

Ballade  of  Literary  Fame  .  .  A.Lang 274 

Chorus  of  Anglomaniacs  (From 

The  Buntling  Ball)  .  .  .  Edgar  Fawcett  .  .  .  275 

The  Net  of  Law  ....  James  Jeffrey  Roche .  .  277 

A  Boston  Lullaby  ....  James  Jeffrey  Roche .  .  277 

The  V-A-S-E James  Jeffrey  Roche .  .  278 

Thursday Frederick  E.  Weatherly  .  280 

[xiv] 


Contents 


PAGE 

A  Bird  in  the  Hand 

Frederick  E.  Weatherly  . 

281 

An  Advanced  Thinker  . 

Brander  Matthews    . 

282 

A  Thought    

J.K.Stephen      .     .     . 

283 

A  Sonnet  

J.K.Stephen      .      .      . 

284 

They  Said     

Edith  M.  Thomas    .     . 

284 

ToR.  K  

J.K.Stephen      .     .      . 

286 

To  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saave- 

dra  

R.  K.  Munkittrick    .      . 

287 

What's  in  a  Name     .... 

R.  K.  Munkittrick    .     . 

288 

Wed H .  C.  Bunner     .     .      .  289 

Atlantic  City H.  C.  Bunner     .      .      .  290 

The  Font  in  the  Forest  .      .      .  Herman    Knickerbocker 

Viele 294 

The  Origin  of  Sin     ....  Samuel  Walter  Foss  .      .  294 

A  Philosopher     .      .      .      .      .  Samuel  Walter  Foss .      .  295 

The  Fate  of  Pious  Dan  .      .      .  Samuel  Walter  Foss  .      .  298 
The  Meeting  of  the  Clabber- 

huses Samuel  Walter  Foss        .  300 

Wedded  Bliss Charlotte  Perkins  (Stet- 
son) Oilman    ...  303 

A  Conservative Charlotte  Perkins  (Stet- 
son) Gilman    .      .      .  304 

Same  Old  Story Harry  B.  Smith  .      .      .  306 

Hem  and  Haw Bliss  Carman      .      .      .  307 

The  Sceptics Bliss  Carman      .     .     .  308 

The  Evolution  of  a  "Name"     .   Charles  Battell  Loomis   .  310 

"  The  Hurt  that  Honour  Feels  "  Owen  Seaman     .      .      .  310 

John  Jenkins      .   '  .      .      .      .  Anthony  C.  Deane    .      .  313 

A  Certain  Cure Anthony  C.  Deane    .      .  316 

The  Beauties  of  Nature  (A 
Fragment  from  an  Unpub- 
lished Epic)  Anthony  C.  Deane  .  ..  317 

Paradise.     A  Hindoo  Legend  .  George  Birdseye  .      .     .  319 

Hoch !  der  Kaiser      ....  Rodney  Blake      .      .      .  320 

On  a  Magazine  Sonnet  .      .      .   Russell  Hilliar d  Loines  .  321 

Earth Oliver  Her  ford    .      .      .  321 


[xv] 


Contents 

PAGE 

A  Butterfly  of  Fashion   .      .      .  Oliver  Her  ford    .     .      .  322 
General  Summary    ....  Rudyard  Kipling      .      .  324 
The  Conundrum  of  the  Work- 
shops     Rudyard  Kipling      .      .  326 

Extracts  from  the  Rubaiyat  of 

Omar  Cayenne     ....  Gelett  Burgess     .      .      .  328 

Ballade  of  Expansion     .      .      .   Hilda  Johnson   .      .      .  331 
Friday  Afternoon  at  the  Boston 

Symphony  Hall     ....  Faulkner  Armytage  .      .  332 

War  is  Kind Stephen  Crane     .      .      .  336 

Lines Stephen  Crane     .      .      .  337 

From  "The  House  of  a  Hun- 
dred Lights" Frederic    Ridgely    Tor- 

rence 340 

The  British  Visitor  ....  From  The  Troliopiad     .  343 

A  Match Punch 343 

Wanted  a  Governess      .      .      .  Anonymous   ....  346 

Lines  by  an  Old  Fogy    .      .      .  Anonymous  ....  348 


[xvi] 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

OATIRE,  though  a  form  of  literature  familiar 
^J  to  everyone,  is  difficult  to  define.  Partaking 
variously  of  sarcasm,  irony,  ridicule,  and  bur- 
lesque, it  is  exactly  synonymous  with  no  one  of 
these. 

Satire  is  primarily  dependent  on  the  motive  of 
its  writer.  Unless  meant  for  satire,  it  is  not  the 
real  thing;  unconscious  satire  is  a  contradiction  of 
terms,  or  a  mere  figure  of  speech. 

Secondarily,  satire  depends  on  the  reader.  What 
seems  to  us  satire  to-day,  may  not  seem  so  to- 
morrow. Or,  what  seems  satire  to  a  pessimistic 
mind,  may  seem  merely  good-natured  chaff  to  an 
optimist. 

This,  of  course,  refers  to  the  subtler  forms  of 
satire.  Many  classic  satires  are  direct  lampoons 
or  broadsides  which  admit  of  only  one  interpreta- 
tion. 

Literature  numbers  many  satirists  among  its 
most  honoured  names;  and  the  best  satires  show 
intellect,  education,  and  a  keen  appreciation  of 
human  nature. 

Nor  is  satire  necessarily  vindictive  or  spiteful. 
Often  its  best  examples  show  a  kindly  tolerance  for 
[xix] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


the  vice  or  folly  in  question,  and  even  hint  a  tacit 
acceptance  of  the  conditions  condemned.  Again, 
in  the  hands  of  a  carping  and  unsympathetic  critic, 
satire  is  used  with  vitriolic  effects  on  sins  for  which 
the  writer  has  no  mercy. 

This  lashing  form  of  satire  was  doubtless  the 
earliest  type.  The  Greeks  show  sardonic  examples 
of  it,  but  the  Romans  allowed  a  broader  sense  of 
humour  to  soften  the  satirical  sting. 

Following  and  outstripping  Lucilius,  Horace  is 
the  acknowledged  father  of  satire,  and  was  himself 
followed,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  some,  outstripped 
by  Juvenal. 

But  the  works  of  the  ancient  satirists  are  of  in- 
terest mainly  to  scholars,  and  cannot  be  included  in 
a  collection  destined  for  a  popular  audience.  The 
present  volume,  therefore,  is  largely  made  up  from 
the  products  of  more  recent  centuries. 

From  the  times  of  Horace  and  Juvenal,  down 
through  the  mediaeval  ages  to  the  present  day, 
satires  may  be  divided  into  the  two  classes  founded 
by  the  two  great  masters:  the  work  of  Horace's 
followers  marked  by  humour  and  tolerance,  that  of 
Juvenal's  imitators  by  bitter  invective.  On  the  one 
side,  the  years  have  arrayed  such  names  as  Chaucer, 
Swift,  Goldsmith,  and  Thackeray;  on  the  other, 
Langland,  Dryden,  Pope,  and  Burns. 

A  scholarly  gentleman  of  our  own  day  classifies 


Introduction 


satires  in  three  main  divisions :  those  directed  at 
society,  those  which  ridicule  political  conditions, 
and  those  aimed  at  individual  characters. 

These  variations  of  the  art  of  satire  form  a  fas- 
cinating study,  and  to  one  interested  in  the  subject, 
this  small  collection  of  representative  satires  can  be 
merely  a  ser  es  of  guide-posts. 

It  is  the  compiler's  regret  that  a  great  mass  of 
material  is  necessarily  omitted  for  lack  of  space; 
other  selections  are  discarded  because  of  their  pres- 
ent untimeliness,  which  deprives  them  of  their  in- 
trinsic interest.  But  an  endeavour  has  been  made 
to  represent  the  greatest  and  best  satiric  writers, 
and  also  to  include  at  least  extracts  from  the  master- 
pieces of  satire. 

It  is  often  asked  why  we  have  no  satire  at  the 
present  day.  Many  answers  have  been  given,  but 
one  reason  is  doubtless  to  be  found  in  the  accelera- 
tion of  the  pace  of  life;  fads  and  foibles  follow  one 
another  so  quickly,  that  we  have  time  neither  to 
write  nor  read  satiric  disquisitions  upon  them. 

Another  reason  lies  in  the  fact  that  we  have 
achieved  a  broader  and  more  tolerant  human  out- 
look. 

Again,  the  true  satirist  must  be  possessed  of  ear- 
nestness and  sincerity.     And  it  is  a  question  whether 
the  mental   atmosphere  of  the  twentieth   century 
tends  to  stimulate  and  foster  those  qualities, 
[xxi] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


These  explanations,  however,  seem  to  apply  to 
American  writers  more  especially  than  to  English. 

The  leisurely  thinking  Briton,  with  his  more  per- 
sonal viewpoint,  has  produced,  and  is  even  now 
producing,  satires  marked  by  strength,  honesty,  and 
literary  value. 

But  America  is  not  entirely  unrepresented.  The 
work  of  James  Russell  Lowell  cannot  suffer  by 
comparison  with  that  of  any  contemporary  English 
author;  and,  though  now  forgotten  because  depend- 
ent on  local  and  timely  interest,  many  political 
satires  written  by  Americans  during  the  early  part 
of  the  nineteenth  century  show  clever  and  ingenious 
work  founded  on  a  comprehensive  knowledge  of  the 
truth. 

Yet,  though  the  immediate  present  is  not  produc- 
ing masterpieces  of  satire,  the  lack  is  partially  made 
up  by  the  large  quantity  of  really  meritorious  work 
that  is  being  done  in  a  satirical  vein.  In  this  coun- 
try and  in  England  are  young  and  middle-aged 
writers  who  show  evidences  of  satiric  power,  which, 
though  it  does  not  make  for  fame  and  glory,  is  yet 
not  without  its  value. 


A   SATIRE    ANTHOLOGY 


Satire  Anthology 


CHORUS  OF  WOMEN 

(From  the  "  Thesmophortazus<e.") 

r  I  ^HEY'RE  always  abusing  the  women, 

As  a  terrible  plague  to  men; 
They  say  we're  the  root  of  all  evil, 

And  repeat  it  again  and  again — 
Of  war,  and  quarrels,  and  bloodshed, 

All  mischief,  be  what  it  may. 
And  pray,  then,  why  do  you  marry  us, 

If  we're  all  the  plagues  you  say  ? 
And  why  do  you  take  such  care  of  us, 

And  keep  us  so  safe  at  home, 
And  are  never  easy  a  moment 

If  ever  we  chance  to  roam  ? 
When  you  ought  to  be  thanking  Heaven 

That  your  plague  is  out  of  the  way, 
You  all  keep  fussing  and  fretting — 

"Where  is  my  Plague  to-day?" 
If  a  Plague  peeps  out  of  the  window, 

Up  go  the  eyes  of  men; 
If  she  hides,  then  they  all  keep  staring 

Until  she  looks  out  again. 

Aristophanes. 

[3] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  WOULD-BE  LITERARY  BORE 

TT  chanced  that  I,  the  other  day, 
Was  sauntering  up  the  Sacred  Wray, 
And  musing,  as  my  habit  is, 
Some  trivial  random  fantasies, 
When  there  comes  rushing  up  a  wight 
Whom  only  by  his  name  I  knew. 
"Ha!  my  dear  fellow,  how  d'ye  do?" 
Grasping  my  hand,  he  shouted.     "Why, 
As  times  go,  pretty  well,"  said  I; 
"And  you,  I  trust,  can  say  the  same." 
But  after  me  as  still  he  came, 
"Sir,  is  there  anything,"  I  cried, 
"You  want  of  me?"     "Oh,"  he  replied, 
"I'm  just  the  man  you  ought  to  know: 
A  scholar,  author!"     "Is  it  so? 
For  this  I'll  like  you  all  the  more  ! " 
Then,  writhing  to  escape  the  bore, 
I'll  quicken  now  my  pace,  now  stop, 
And  in  my  servant's  ear  let  drop 
Some  words;  and  all  the  while  I  feel 
Bathed  in  cold  sweat  from  head  to  heel. 
"Oh,  for  a  touch,"  I  moaned  in  pain, 
"Bolanus,  of  the  madcap  vein, 
To  put  this  incubus  to  rout!" 
As  he  went  chattering  on  about 
Whatever  he  describes  or  meets — 
The  city's  growth,  its  splendour,  size. 
"You're  dying  to  be  off,"  he  cries 
(For  all  the  while  I'd  been  stock  dumb); 
"I've  seen  it  this  half-hour.     But  come, 

[4] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Let's  clearly  understand  each  other; 

It's  no  use  making  all  this  pother. 

My  mind's  made  up  to  stick  by  you; 

So  where  you  go,  there  I  go  too." 

"Don't  put  yourself,"  I  answered,  "pray, 

So  very  far  out  of  your  way. 

I'm  on  the  road  to  see  a  friend 

Whom  you  don't  know,  that's  near  his  end, 

Away  beyond  the  Tiber  far, 

Close  by  where  Caesar's  gardens  are." 

"I've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do, 

And  what's  a  paltry  mile  or  two  ? 

I  like  it:  so  I'll  follow  you!" 

Down  dropped  my  ears  on  hearing  this, 

Just  like  a  vicious  jackass's, 

That's  loaded  heavier  than  he  likes, 

But  off  anew  my  torment  strikes: 

"If  well  I  know  myself,  you'll  end 

With  making  of  me  more  a  friend 

Than  Viscus,  ay,  or  Varius;  for, 

Of  verses,  who  can  run  off  more, 

Or  run  them  off  at  such  a  pace  ? 

Who  dance  with  such  distinguished  grace  ? 

And  as  for  singing,  zounds!"  says  he, 

" Hermogenes  might  envy  me!" 

Here  was  an  opening  to  break  in : 

"Have  you  a  mother,  father,  kin, 

To  whom  your  life  is  precious?"     "None; 

I've  closed  the  eyes  of  everyone." 

Oh,  happy  they,  I  inly  groan; 

Now  I  am  left,  and  I  alone. 

Quick,  quick  despatch  me  where  I  stand; 

[5] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Now  is  the  direful  doom  at  hand, 
Which  erst  the  Sabine  beldam  old, 
Shaking  her  magic  urn,  foretold 
In  days  when  I  was  yet  a  boy: 
"Him  shall  no  poison  fell  destroy, 
Nor  hostile  sword  in  shock  of  war, 
Nor  gout,  nor  colic,  nor  catarrh. 
In  fulness  of  time  his  thread 
Shall  by  a  prate-apace  be  shred; 
So  let  him,  when  he's  twenty-one, 
If  he  be  wise,  all  babblers  shun." 

Quintus  Horattus  Flaccus  Horace. 


THE  WISH  FOR  LENGTH  OF  LIFE 

PRODUCE  the  urn  that  Hannibal  contains, 
And  weigh  the  mighty  dust  that  yet  remains. 
And  this  is  all  ?     Yet  this  was  once  the  bold, 
The  aspiring  chief,  whom  Attic  could  not  hold. 
Afric,  outstretched  from  where  the  Atlantic  roars 
To  Nilus;  from  the  Line  to  Libya's  shores. 
Spain  conquered,  o'er  the  Pyrenees  he  bounds. 
Nature  opposed  her  everlasting  mounds, 
Her   Alps  and  snows.       O'er   these   with   torrent 

force 
He  pours,  and  rends  through  rocks  his  dreadful 

course. 

Yet  thundering  on,  "Think  nothing  done,"  he  cries, 
"Till  o'er  Rome's  prostrate  walls  I  lead  my  powers, 
And  plant  my  standard  on  her  hated  towers!" 
Big  words  ?     But  view  his  figure,  view  his  face ! 

[6] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Ah,  for  some  master  hand  the  lines  to  trace, 
As  through  the   Etrurian   swamps,   by   floods   in- 
creased, 

The  one-eyed  chief  urged  his  Getulian  beast! 
But  what  ensued  ?     Illusive  glory,  say: 
Subdued  on  Zama's  memorable  day, 
He  flies  in  exile  to  a  petty  state, 
With  headlong  haste,  and  at  a  despot's  gate 
Sits,  mighty  suppliant — of  his  life  in  doubt, 
Till  the  Bithynian's  morning  nap  be  out. 
Nor  swords,  nor  spears,  nor  stones  from  engines 

hurled, 
Shall  quell   the    man   whose  frowns   alarmed  the 

world. 

The  vengeance  due  to  Cannae's  fatal  field, 
And  floods  of  human  gore,  a  ring  shall  yield! 
Go,  madman,  go!  at  toil  and  danger  mock, 
Pierce  the  deep  snow,  and  scale  the  eternal  rock, 
To  please  the  rhetoricians,  and  become 
A  declamation  for  the  boys  of  Rome. 

'Juvenal. 

THE   ASS'S   LEGACY 

A    PRIEST  there  was,  in  times  of  old, 
r\       Fond  of  his  church,  but  fonder  of  his  gold, 

Who  spent  his  days,  and  all  his  thought, 
In  getting  what  he  preached  was  naught. 
His  chests  were  full  of  robes  and  stuff; 
Corn  filled  his  garners  to  the  roof, 
Stored  up  against  the  fair-times  gay 
From  St.  Remy  to  Easter  day. 

[7] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


An  ass  he  had  within  his  stable, 
A  beast  most  sound  and  valuable; 
For  twenty  years  he  lent  his  strength 
For  the  priest,  his  master,  till  at  length, 
Worn  out  with  work  and  age,  he  died. 
The  priest,  who  loved  him,  wept  and  cried; 
And,  for  his  service  long  and  hard, 
Buried  him  in  his  own  churchyard. 

Now  turn  we  to  another  thing: 
'Tis  of  a  bishop  that  I  sing. 
No  greedy  miser  he,  I  ween; 
Prelate  so  generous  ne'er  was  seen. 
Full  well  he  loved  in  company 
Of  all  good  Christians  still  to  be; 
When  he  was  well,  his  pleasure  still; 
His  medicine  best  when  he  was  ill. 

Always  his  hall  was  full,  and  there 
His  guests  had  ever  best  of  fare. 
Whate'er  the  bishop  lacked  or  lost, 
Was  bought  at  once,  despite  the  cost. 
And  so,  in  spite  of  vent  and  score, 
The  bishop's  debts  grew  more  and  more. 
For  true  it  is — this  ne'er  forget — 
Who  spends  too  much  gets  into  debt. 
One  day  his  friends  all  with  him  sat, 
The  bishop  talking  this  and  that, 
Till  the  discourse  on  rich  clerks  ran, 
Of  greedy  priests,  and  how  their  plan 
Was  all  good  bishops  still  to  grieve, 
And  of  their  dues  their  lords  deceive. 

[8] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  then  the  priest  of  whom  I've  told 

Was  mentioned — how  he  loved  his  gold. 

And,  because  men  do  often  use 

More  freedom  than  the  truth  would  choose, 

They  gave  him  wealth,  and  wealth  so  much, 

As  those  like  him  could  scarcely  touch. 

"And  then,  besides,  a  thing  he's  done 

By  which  great  profit  might  be  won, 

Could  it  be  only  spoken  here." 

Quoth  the  bishop,  "Tell  it  without  fear." 

"He's  worse,  my  lord,  than  Bedouin, 

Because  his  own  dead  ass,  Baldwin, 

He  buried  in  the  sacred  ground." 

"  If  this  is  truth,  as  shall  be  found," 

The  bishop  cried,  "a  forfeit  high 

Will  on  his  worldly  riches  lie. 

Summon  this  wicked  priest  to  me; 

I  will  myself  in  this  case  be 

The  judge.     If  Robert's  word  be  true, 

Mine  are  the  fine,  and  forfeit  too." 


"  Disloyal !     God's  enemy  and  mine, 

Prepare  to  pay  a  heavy  fine. 

Thy  ass  thou  buriest  in  the  place 

Sacred  by  church.     Now,  by  God's  grace, 

I  never  heard  of  crime  more  great. 

What!     Christian  men  with  asses  wait! 

Now,  if  this  thing  be  proven,  know 

Surely  to  prison  thou  wilt  go." 

"Sir,"  said  the  priest,  "thy  patience  grant; 

A  short  delay  is  all  I  want. 

[9] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Not  that  I  fear  to  answer  now, 
But  give  me  what  the  laws  allow." 
And  so  the  bishop  leaves  the  priest, 
Who  does  not  feel  as  if  at  feast; 
But  still,  because  one  friend  remains, 
He  trembles  not  at  prison  pains. 
His  purse  it  is  which  never  fails 
For  tax  or  forfeit,  fine  or  vails. 

The  term  arrived,  the  priest  appeared, 

And  met  the  bishop,  nothing  feared; 

For  'neath  his  girdle  safe  there  hung 

A  leathern  purse,  well  stocked  and  strung 

With  twenty  pieces  fresh  and  bright, 

Good  money  all,  none  clipped  or  light. 

"Priest,"  said  the  bishop,  "if  thou  have 

Answer  to  give  to  charge  so  grave, 

'Tis  now  the  time." 

"Sir,  grant  me  leave 

My  answer  secretly  to  give. 

Let  me  confess  to  you  alone, 

And,  if  needs  be,  my  sins  atone." 

The  bishop  bent  his  head  to  hear; 

The  priest  he  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"Sir,  spare  a  tedious  tale  to  tell. 

My  poor  ass  served  me  long  and  well- 

For  twenty  years  my  faithful  slave; 

Each  year  his  work  a  saving  gave 

Of  twenty  sous,  so  that,  in  all, 

To  twenty  livres  the  sum  will  fall; 

And,  for  the  safety  of  his  soul, 

To  you,  my  lord,  he  left  the  whole." 

[10] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"Twas  rightly  done,"  the  bishop  said. 
And  gravely  shook  his  godly  head; 
"And  that  his  soul  to  heaven  may  go, 
My  absolution  I  bestow." 

Now  have  you  heard  a  truthful  lay, 
How  with  rich  priests  the  bishops  play; 
And  Ruteboeuf  the  moral  draws 
That,  spite  of  kings'  and  bishops'  laws, 
No  evil  times  has  he  to  dread 
Who  still  has  silver  at  his  need. 

RutebiPuf. 


A  BALLADE  OF  OLD-TIME  LADIES 

(Translated  by  "John  Payne.} 

TELL  me,  where,  in  what  land  of  shade, 
Hides  fair  Flora  of  Rome?   and  where 
Are  Thais  and  Archipiade, 
Cousins-german  in  beauty  rare  ? 
And  Echo,  more  than  mortal  fair, 
That  when  one  calls  by  river  flow, 

Or  marish,  answers  out  of  the  air? 
But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

Where  did  the  learn'd  Heloisa  vade, 

For  whose  sake  Abelard  did  not  spare 

(Such  dole  for  love  on  him  was  laid) 

Manhood  to  lose  and  a  cowl  to  wear? 

[II] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  where  is  the  queen  who  will'd  whilere 
That  Buridan,  tied  in  a  sack,  should  go 

Floating  down  Seine  from  the  turret-stair? 
But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

Blanche,  too,  the  lily-white  queen,  that  made 
Sweet  music  as  if  she  a  siren  were  ? 

Broad-foot  Bertha  ?  and  Joan,  the  maid, 
The  good  Lorrainer  the  English  bare 
Captive  to  Rouen,  and  burn'd  her  there  ? 

Beatrix,  Eremburge,  Alys — lo! 

Where  are  they,  virgins  debonair? 

But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

ENVOI 

Prince,  you  may  question  how  they  fare, 
This  week,  or  liefer  this  year,  I  trow: 

Still  shall  this  burden  the  answer  bear- 
But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow  ? 
Francois  Fillon. 


A  CARMAN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  A  LAWSUIT 

MARRY,  I  lent  my  gossip  my  mare,  to  fetch 
hame  coals, 

And  he  her  drounit  into  the  quarry  holes; 
And  I  ran  to  the  consistory,  for  to  pleinyie, 
And  there  I  happenit  amang  ane  greedie  meinyie. 
They  gave  me  first  ane  thing  they  call  citandum, 
Within  aucht  days  I  gat  but  libellandum; 
[12] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Within  ane  month  I  gat  ad  opponendum; 
In  half  ane  year  I  gat  inter-loquendum; 
And  syne  I  gat — how  call  ye  it  ? — ad  repllcandum; 
Bot  I  could  never  ane  word  yet  understand  him: 
And  then  they  gart  me  cast  out  mony  placks, 
And  gart  me  pay  for  four-and-twenty  acts. 
Bot  or  they  came  half  gate  to  concludendum, 
The  fiend  ane  plack  was  left  for  to  defend  him. 
Thus  they  postponed  me  twa  year  with  their  train, 
Syne,  bodie  ad  octo,  bade  me  come  again; 
And  then  their  rooks  they  rowpit  wonder  fast 
For  sentence,  silver,  they  cryit  at  the  last. 
Of  pronunciandum  they  made  me  wonder  fain, 
Bot  I  gat  never  my  gude  gray  mare  again. 

Sir  David  Lyndsay. 


THE   SOUL'S   ERRAND 


G 


O,  Soul,  the  body's  guest, 

Upon  a  thankless  errand; 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant. 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  them  all  the  lie. 


Go  tell  the  Court  it  glows 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood; 
Go  tell  the  Church  it  shows 

What's  good,  but  does  no  good. 
If  Court  and  Church  reply, 
Give  Court  and  Church  the  lie. 

[13] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Tell  Potentates  they  live 

Acting,  but  oh!  their  actions; 
Not  loved,  unless  they  give, 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions. 
If  Potentates  reply, 
Give  Potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 
Their  purpose  is  ambition; 
Their  practice  only  hate; 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  those  that  brave  it  most, 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in  their  greatest  cost 

Seek  nothing  but  commending; 
And  if  they  make  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

Tell  Zeal  it  lacks  devotion; 

Tell  Love  it  is  but  lust; 
Tell  Time  it  is  but  motion; 
Tell  Flesh  it  is  but  dust; 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  Age  it  daily  wasteth; 

Tell  Honour  how  it  alters; 
Tell  Beauty  how  it  blasteth; 
Tell  Favour  that  she  falters; 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

[H] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Tell  Wit  how  much  it  wrangles 

In  fickle  points  of  niceness; 
Tell  Wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  overwiseness; 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  Physic  of  her  boldness; 
Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension; 
Tell  Charity  of  coldness; 
Tell  Law  it  is  contention; 
And  if  they  yield  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Fortune  of  her  blindness; 

Tell  Nature  of  decay; 
Tell  Friendship  of  unkindness; 
Tell  Justice  of  delay; 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  Arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming; 
Tell  Schools  they  lack  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  Arts  and  Schools  reply, 
Give  Arts  and  Schools  the  lie. 

Tell  Faith  it's  fled  the  city; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth; 

Tell,  Manhood  shakes  off  pity; 

Tell,  Virtue  least  preferreth; 

And  if  they  do  reply, 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

[15] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


So,  when  them  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing, 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing, 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  Soul  can  kill! 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

OF   A   CERTAIN   MAN 

r  I  AHERE    was    (not    certain    when)    a    certain 

preacher 

That  never  learned,  and  yet  became  a  teacher, 
Who,  having  read  in  Latin  thus  a  text 
Of  erat  quidam  homo,  much  perplexed, 
He  seemed  the  same  with  study  great  to  scan, 
In  English  thus,  There  was  a  certain  man. 
"But  now,"  quoth  he,  "good  people,  note  you  this, 
He  said  there  was:  he  doth  not  say  there  is; 
For  in  these  days  of  ours  it  is  most  plain 
Of  promise,  oath,  word,  deed,  no  man's  certain; 
Yet  by  my  text  you  see  it  comes  to  pass 
That  surely  once  a  certain  man  there  was; 
But  yet,  I  think,  in  all  your  Bible  no  man 
Can  find  this  text,  There  was  a  certain  woman." 

Sir  "John  Harrington. 

A  PRECISE   TAILOR 

A  TAILOR,  thought  a  man  of  upright  dealing — 
True,  but  for  lying,  honest,  but  for  stealing — 
Did  fall  one  day  extremely  sick  by  chance, 
And  on  the  sudden  was  in  wondrous  trance; 
[16] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  fiends  of  hell  mustering  in  fearful  manner, 
Of  sundry  colour'd  silks  display'd  a  banner 
Which  he  had  stolen,  and  wish'd,  as  they  did  tell, 
That  he  might  find  it  all  one  day  in  hell. 
The  man,  affrighted  with  this  apparition, 
Upon  recovery  grew  a  great  precisian: 
He  bought  a  Bible  of  the  best  translation, 
And  in  his  life  he  show'd  great  reformation; 
He  walked  mannerly,  he  talked  meekly, 
He  heard  three  lectures  and  two  sermons  weekly; 
He  vow'd  to  shun  all  company  unruly, 
And  in  his  speech  he  used  no  oath  but  truly; 
And  zealously  to  keep  the  Sabbath's  rest, 
His  meat  for  that  day  on  the  eve  was  drest; 
And  lest  the  custom  which  he  had  to  steal 
Might  cause  him  sometimes  to  forget  his  zeal, 
He  gives  his  journeyman  a  special  charge, 
That  if  the  stuff,  allowance  being  large, 
He  found  his  fingers  were  to  filch  inclined, 
Bid  him  to  have  the  banner  in  his  mind. 
This  done  (I  scant  can  tell  the  rest  for  laughter), 
A  captain  of  a  ship  came,  three  days  after, 
And    brought    three  yards   of   velvet    and    three- 
quarters, 

To  make  Venetians  down  below  the  garters. 
He,  that  precisely  knew  what  was  enough, 
Soon  slipt  aside  three-quarters  of  the  stuff. 
His  man,  espying  it,  said  in  derision, 
"Master,  remember  how  you  saw  the  vision!" 
"Peace,  knave!"  quoth  he,  "I  did  not  see  one  rag 
Of  such  a  colour'd  silk  in  all  the  flag." 

Sir  yobn  Harrington. 

[I?]    ' 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  WILL 

BEFORE  I  sigh  my  last  gasp,  let  me  breathe, 
Great  Love,  some  legacies:  Here  I  bequeathe 
Mine  eyes  to  Argus,  if  mine  eyes  can  see; 
If  they  be  blind,  then,  Love,  I  give  them  thee; 
My  tongue  to  fame;  to  embassadors  mine  ears; 
To  women  or  the  sea,  my  tears. 
Thou,  Love,  hast  taught  me  heretofore, 
By  making  me  serve  her  who  had  twenty  more, 
That  I  should  give  to  none  but  such  as  had  too  much 
before, 

My  constancy  I  to  the  planets  give; 

My  truth  to  them  who  at  the  court  do  live; 

My  ingenuity  and  openness 

To  Jesuits;  to  buffoons  my  pensiveness; 

My  silence  to  any  who  abroad  have  been; 

My  money  to  a  Capuchin. 
Thou,  Love,  taught'st  me,  by  appointing  me 
To  love  there  where  no  love  received  can  be, 
Only  to  give  to  such  as  have  an  incapacity. 

My  faith  I  give  to  Roman  Catholics; 
All  my  good  works  unto  the  schismatics 
Of  Amsterdam;  my  best  civility 
And  courtship  to  a  university; 
My  modesty  I  give  to  soldiers  bare; 

My  patience  let  gamesters  share. 
Thou,  Love,  taught'st  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her  that  holds  my  love  disparity, 
Only  to  give  to  those  that  count  my  gifts  indignity. 
[18] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


I  give  my  reputation  to  those 

Which  were  my  friends;  mine  industry  to  foes; 

To  schoolmen  I  bequeathe  my  doubtfulness; 

My  sickness  to  physicians,  or  excess; 

To  Nature  all  that  I  in  rhyme  have  writ; 

And  to  my  company  my  wit. 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  adore 
Her  who  begot  this  love  in  me  before, 
Taught'st  me  to  make  as  though  I  gave,  when  I  do 
but  restore. 

To  him  for  whom  the  passing  bell  next  tolls 
I  give  my  physic-books;  my  written  rolls 
Of  moral  counsel  I  to  Bedlam  give; 
My  brazen  medals  unto  them  which  live 
In  want  of  bread;  to  t-hem  which  pass  among 

All  foreigners,  mine  English  tongue. 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  love  one 
Who  thinks  her  friendship  a  fit  portion 
For  younger  lovers,  dost  my  gifts  thus  disproportion. 

Therefore  I'll  give  no  more,  but  I'll  undo 
The  world  by  dying,  because  love  dies  too. 
Then  all  your  beauties  will  no  more  be  worth 
Than  gold  in  mines  where  none  doth  draw  it  forth; 
And  all  your  graces  no  more  use  shall  have 

Than  a  sundial  in  a  grave. 
Thou,  Love,  taught'st  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her  who  doth  neglect  both  thee  and  me, 
To  invent  and  practise  this  one  way  to  annihilate 
all  three. 

yobn  Donne. 

[19] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


SHAKESPEAREAN  SATIRE 

FROM  "KING  HENRY  IV" 

MY  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners; 
But  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom;  and  his  chin,  new  reap'd, 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home. 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner, 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose  and  took  't  away  again; 
Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there, 
Took  it  in  snuff:  and  still  he  smil'd  and  talk'd, 
And  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 
He  call'd  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly,  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  question'd  me;  among  the  rest,  demanded 
My  prisoners  in  your  Majesty's  behalf. 
I  then,  all  smarting  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 
To  be  so  pester'd  with  a  popinjay, 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 
Answer'd  neglectingly  I  know  not  what, 
He  should,  or  he  should  not;  for  he  made  me  mad 
To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 
And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentlewoman 
[20] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Of  guns   and    drums    and   wounds — God    save 

the  mark! — 

And  telling  me  the  sovereign's!  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmaceti  for  an  inward  bruise; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 
This  villainous  saltpetre  should  be  digg'd 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 
So  cowardly;  and  but  for  these  vile  guns, 
He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 
This  bald,  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 
I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said; 
And  I  beseech  you,  let  not  this  report 
Come  current  for  an  accusation 
Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  Majesty. 

Shakespeare. 

FROM  "LOPE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST" 

THIS  fellow  pecks  up  wit,  as  pigeons  pease, 
And  utters  it  again  when  God  doth  please. 
He  is  wit's  pedler,  and  retails  his  wares 
At  wakes  and  wassails,  meetings,  markets,  fairs; 
And  we  that  sell  by  gross,  the  Lord  doth  know, 
Have  not  the  grace  to  grace  it  with  such  show. 
This  gallant  pins  the  wenches  on  his  sleeve; 
Had  he  been  Adam,  he  had  tempted  Eve. 
He  can  carve,  too,  and  lisp;  why,  this  is  he 
That  kiss'd  his  hand  away  in  courtesy; 
This  is  the  ape  of  form,  monsieur  the  nice, 
That,  when  he  plays  at  table,  chides  the  dice 
In  honourable  terms;  nay,  he  can  sing 
A  mean  most  meanly;  and  in  ushering, 
[21] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Mend  him  who  can:  the  ladies  call  him  sweet; 
The  stairs,  as  he  treads  on  them,  kiss  his  feet. 
This  is  the  flower  that  smiles  on  every  one, 
To  show  his  teeth  as  white  as  whale's  bone; 
And  consciences  that  will  not  die  in  debt 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongued  Boyet. 


See  where  it  comes! — Behaviour,  what  wert  thou 
Till  this  man  show'd  thee  ?  and  what  art  thou  now  ? 

Shakespeare. 


FROM  "^S  YOU  LIKE  IT" 

ALL  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players: 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms: 
Then  the  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school:     And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow:     Then  a  soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth :     And  then  the  justice, 
In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lin'd, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
[22] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part:     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon, 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side; 
His  youthful  hose  well  sav'd,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound:     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion, 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

Shakespeare. 


HORACE  CONCOCTING  AN  ODE 

TO  thee,  whose  forehead  swells  with  roses, 
Whose  most  haunted  bower 
Gives  life  and  scent  to  every  flower, 
Whose  most  adored  name  encloses 

Things  abstruse,  deep,  and  divine; 
Whose  yellow  tresses  shine 
Bright  as  Eoan  fire: 

Oh,  me  thy  priest  inspire! 
For  I  to  thee  and  thine  immortal  name, 
In — in — in  golden  tunes, 
For  I  to  thee  and  thine  immortal  name — 
In — sacred   raptures  flowing,  flowing,    swimming, 

swimming: 

In  sacred  raptures  swimming, 
Immortal  name,  game,  dame,  tame,  lame,  lame, 
lame, 

[23] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


(Fob)  hath,  shame,  proclaim,  oh — 

In  sacred  raptures  flowing,  will  proclaim.    (No!) 

Oh,  me  thy  priest  inspire! 
For  I  to  thee  and  thine  immortal  name, 
In  flowing  numbers  filled  with  spright  and  flame, 

(Good !  good !) 

In  flowing  numbers  filled  with  spright  and  flame. 

Thomas  Dekker. 


ON  DON  SURLY 

DON  SURLY,  to  aspire  the  glorious  name 
Of  a  great  man,  and  to  be  thought  the  same, 
Makes  serious  use  of  all  great  trade  he  knows. 
He  speaks  to  men  with  a  rhinocerote's  nose, 
Which  he  thinks  great;  and  so  reads  verses  too; 
And  that  is  done  as  he  saw  great  men  do. 
He  has  tympanies  of  business  in  his  face, 
And  can  forget  men's  names  with  a  great  grace. 
He  will  both  argue  and  discourse  in  oaths, 
Both  which  are  great,  and  laugh  at  ill-made  clothes; 
That's  greater  yet,  to  cry  his  own  up  neat. 
He  doth,  at  meals,  alone  his  pheasant  eat, 
Which  is  main  greatness;  and  at  his  still  board 
He  drinks  to  no  man:  that's,  too,  like  a  lord. 
He  keeps  another's  wife,  which  is  a  spice 
Of  solemn  greatness;  and  he  dares,  at  dice, 
Blaspheme  God  greatly;  or  some  poor  hind  beat, 
That  breathes  in  his  dog's  way:  and  this  is  great. 
Nay,  more,  for  greatness'  sake  he  will  be  one 
May  hear  my  epigrams,  but  like  of  none. 

[24] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Surly,  use  other  arts;  these  only  can 
Style  thee  a  most  great  fool,  but  no  great  man. 

Ben 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DOG 

I  WAS  a  scholar:  seven  useful  springs 
Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 
Of  cross'd  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man; 
The  more  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learnt  to  doubt. 
Delight  my  spaniel  slept,  whilst  I  baus'd  leaves, 
Toss'd  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 
Of  titled  words:  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Whilst  I  wasted  lamp-oil,  baited  my  flesh, 
Shrunk  up  my  veins:  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
And  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabarell, 
Aquinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 
Of  antick  Donate:  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Still  on  went  I;  first,  an  sit  anima; 
Then,  an  it  were  mortal.     Oh,  hold,  hold!  at  that 
They're  at  brain  buffets,  fell  by  the  ears  amain 
Pell-mell  together;  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Then,  whether  't  were  corporeal,  local,  fixt, 
Ex  traduce,  but  whether  't  had  free  will 
Or  no,  hot  philosphers 

Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propt, 
I  stagger'd,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part, 
But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observ'd,  and  pryed, 
Stufft  noting-books:  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
At  length  he  wak'd,  and  yawned;  and  by  yon  sky, 
For  aught  I  know  he  knew  as  much  as  I. 

'John  Marston. 
[25] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  MANLY  HEART 

SHALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  my  cheeks  make  pale  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 


Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind; 
Or  a  well-disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 


Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  merit's  value  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  Best, 
If  she  seem  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 
[26] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 

Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 

Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind 

Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 

Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 

Who  without  them  dare  to  woo; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  though  great  she  be? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair; 

If  she  loves  me,  this  believe, 

I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

George  Wither. 


THE   CONSTANT  LOVER 


o 


UT  upon  it!  I  have  loved 

Three  whole  days  together, 
And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 


Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

[27] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  the  spite  on  't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me: 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 

Sir  "John  Suckling. 


w 


THE  REMONSTRANCE 

HY  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
Prithee,  why  so  pale? 


Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame!  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 
Nothing  can  make  her: 
The  devil  take  her! 

Sir  John  Suckling. 
[28] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


SAINTSHIP  VERSUS  CONSCIENCE 


^TTHY  didst  thou  choose  that  cursed  sin, 
Y/V       Hypocrisy,  to  set  up  in?" 

"Because  it  is  the  thriving'st  calling, 
The  only  saints'  bell  that  rings  all  in; 
In  which  all  churches  are  concern'd, 
And  is  the  easiest  to  be  learn'd." 

Quoth  he,  "I  am  resolv'd  to  be 
Thy  scholar  in  this  mystery; 
And  therefore  first  desire  to  know 
Some  principles  on  which  you  go. 
What  makes  a  knave  a  child  of  God, 
And  one  of  us  ?"     "A  livelihood." 
"What  renders  beating  out  of  brains, 
And  murder,  godliness?"     "Great  gains." 
"What's  tender  conscience?"      "Tis  a  botch 
That  will  not  bear  the  gentlest  touch; 
But,  breaking  out,  despatches  more 
Than  th'  epidemical'st  plague-sore." 
"What  makes  y'  encroach  upon  our  trade, 
And  damn  all  others?"     "To  be  paid." 
"What's  orthodox  and  true  believing, 
Against  a  conscience?"     "A  good  living." 
"What  makes  rebelling  against  kings 
A  good  old  cause?"     "Administ'rings." 
"What  makes  all  doctrines  plain  and  clear?" 
"About  two  hundred  pounds  a  year." 
"And  that  which  was  prov'd  true  before, 
Prov'd  false  again?"     "Two  hundred  more." 

[29] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"What  makes  the  breaking  of  all  oaths 
A  holy  duty?"     "Food  and  clothes." 
"What,  laws  and  freedom,  persecution?" 
"Being  out  of  power  and  contribution." 
"What  makes  a  church  a  den  of  thieves?" 
"A  dean  and  chapter,  and  white  sleeves." 
"And  what  would  serve,  if  these  were  gone, 
To  make  it  orthodox?"     "Our  own." 
"What  makes  morality  a  crime, 
The  most  notorious  of  the  time; 
Morality,  which  both  the  saints 
And  wicked,  too,  cry  out  against?" 
"'Cause  grace  and  virtue  are  within 
Prohibited  degrees  of  kin; 
And  therefore  no  true  saint  allows 
They  shall  be  suffered  to  espouse." 

Samuel  Butler. 

DESCRIPTION  OF  HOLLAND 

A  COUNTRY  that  draws  fifty  foot  of  water, 
In  which  men  live  as  in  the  hold  of  Nature, 
And  when  the  sea  does  in  upon  them  break, 
And  drowns  a  province,  does  but  spring  a  leak; 
That  always  ply  the  pump,  and  never  think 
They  can  be  safe  but  at  the  rate  they  stink; 
They  live  as  if  they  had  been  run  aground, 
And,  when  they  die,  are  cast  away  and  drowned; 
That  dwell  in  ships,  like  swarms  of  rats,  and  prey 
Upon  the  goods  all  nations'  fleets  convey; 
And  when  their  merchants  are  blown  up  and  crackt, 
Whole  towns  are  cast  away  in  storms,  and  wreckt; 

[30] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


That  feed,  like  cannibals,  on  other  fishes, 
And  serve  their  cousin-germans  up  in  dishes: 
A  land  that  rides  at  anchor,  and  is  moored, 
In  which  they  do  not  live,  but  go  aboard. 

Samuel  Butler. 

THE   RELIGION   OF   HUDIBRAS 

FOR  his  religion  it  was  fit 
To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit: 
Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue; 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  Church  militant; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun; 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery, 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox, 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks; 
Call  fire,  and  sword,  and  desolation, 
A  godly,  thorough  reformation. 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on, 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done; 
As  if  religion  were  intended 
For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended; 
A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd  perverse  antipathies; 
In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss; 
More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic, 
Than  dog  distract  or  monkey  sick; 

[31] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


That  with  more  care  keep  holy-day 

The  wrong,  than  others  the  right  way; 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclin'd  to, 

By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to; 

Still  so  perverse  and  opposite, 

As  if  they  worshipped  God  for  spite; 

The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 

One  way,  and  long  another  for; 

Free-will  they  one  way  disavow, 

Another,  nothing  else  allow; 

All  piety  consists  therein 

In  them,  in  other  men  all  sin; 

Rather  than  fail,  they  will  defy 

That  which  they  love  most  tenderly; 

Quarrel  with  minc'd  pies,  and  disparage 

Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum  porridge; 

Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose, 

And  blaspheme  custard  through  the  nose. 

Samuel  Butler, 


SATIRE  ON  THE  SCOTS 

ALAND  where  one  may  pray  with  cursed  in- 
tent, 

Oh,  may  they  never  suffer  banishment! 
Had  Cain  been  Scot,  God  would  have  chang'd  his 

doom — 

Not  forc'd  him  wander,  but  confin'd  him  home. 
Like  Jews  they  spread  and  as  infection  fly, 
As  if  the  devil  had  ubiquity; 

[32] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Hence  'tis  they  live  as  rovers,  and  defy 
This  or  that  place,  rags  of  geography; 
They're  citizens  o'  th'  world,  they're  all  in  all; 
Scotland's  a  nation  epidemical. 
And  yet  they  ramble  not  to  learn  the  mode 
How  to  be  drest,  or  how  to  lisp  abroad.     .     .     . 
No,  the  Scots  errant  fight,  and  fight  to  eat; 
Their   ostrich-stomachs   make   their   swords   their 

meat; 

Nature  with  Scots  as  tooth-drawers  hath  dealt, 
Who  use  to  string  their  teeth  upon  their  belt.   .   .   . 
Lord!  what  a  godly  thing  is  want  of  shirts! 
How  a  Scotch  stomach  and  no  meat  converts! 
They  wanted  food  and  raiment;  so  they  took 
Religion  for  their  seamstress  and  their  cook. 
Unmask  them  well,  their  honours  and  estate, 
As  well  as  conscience,  are  sophisticate. 
Shrive  but  their  title  and  their  moneys  poize, 
A  laird  and  twenty  pence  pronounc'd  with  noise, 
When  constru'd  but  for  a  plain  yeoman  go, 
And  a  good  sober  twopence,  and  well  so. 
Hence,  then,  you  proud  impostors!  get  you  gone, 
You  Picts  in  gentry  and  devotion, 
You  scandal  to  the  stock  of  verse — a  race 
Able  to  bring  the  gibbet  in  disgrace! 
Hyperbolus  by  suffering  did  traduce 
The  ostracism,  and  sham'd  it  out  of  use. 
The  Indian  that  heaven  did  forswear, 
Because  he  heard  some  Spaniards  were  there, 
Had  he  but  known  what  Scots  in  hell  had  been, 
He  would,  Erasmus-like,  have  hung  between. 
My  muse  hath  done.     A  voyder  for  the  nonce, 

[33] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


I  wrong  the  devil  should  I  pick  their  bones; 
That  dish  is  his;  for  when  the  Scots  decease,. 
Hell,  like  their  nation,  feeds  on  barnacles. 
A  Scot  when  from  the  gallow-tree  got  loose, 
Drops  into  Styx,  and  turns  a  Soland  goose. 

"John   Cleiveland. 

SONG 

WHY  should  you  swear  I  am  forsworn, 
Since  thine  I  vowed  to  be  ? 
Lady,  it  is  already  morn, 
And  'twas  last  night  I  swore  to  thee 
That  fond  impossibility. 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  much  and  long, 

A  tedious  twelve  hours'  space? 
I  must  all  other  beauties  wrong, 

And  rob  thee  of  a  new  embrace, 

Could  I  still  dote  upon  thy  face. 

Not  but  all  joy  in  thy  brown  hair 
By  others  may  be  found; 

But  I  must  search  the  black  and  fair, 
Like  skilful  mineralists  that  sound 
For  treasure  in  unploaghed-up  ground. 

Then,  if  when  I  have  loved  my  round, 

Thou  prov'st  the  pleasant  she; 
With  spoils  of  meaner  beauties  crowned, 

I  laden  will  return  to  thee, 

Even  sated  with  variety. 

Richard  Lovelace. 

[34] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE   CHARACTER  OF   HOLLAND 

HOLLAND,  that  scarce  deserves  the  name  of 
land, 

As  but  the  off-scouring  of  the  British  sand, 
And  so  much  earth  as  was  contributed 
By  English  pilots  when  they  heaved  the  lead; 
Or  what  by  th'  ocean's  slow  alluvion  fell, 
Of  shipwrecked  cockle  and  the  mussel-shell; 
This  indigested  vomit  of  the  sea 
Fell  to  the  Dutch  by  just  propriety. 
Glad  then,  as  miners  who  have  found  the  ore, 
They,  with  mad  labour,  fished  the  land  to  shore; 
And  dived  as  desperately  for  each  piece 
Of  earth  as  if 't  had  been  of  ambergreese; 
Collecting  anxiously  small  loads  of  clay, 
Less  than  what  building-swallows  bear  away; 
Or  than  those  pills  which  sordid  beetles  roll, 
Transfusing  into  them  their  dunghill  soul. 
How  did  they  rivet,  with  gigantic  piles, 
Thorough  the  centre  their  new-catched  miles; 
And  to  the  stake  a  struggling  country  bound, 
Where  barking  waves  still  bait  the  forced  ground; 
Building  their  watery  Babel  far  more  high 
To  reach  the  sea,  than  those  to  scale  the  sky. 
Yet  still  his  claim  the  injured  ocean  laid, 
And  oft  at  leap-frog  o'er  their  steeples  played; 
As  if  on  purpose  it  on  land  had  come 
To  shew  them  what's  their  mare  liberum. 
A  daily  deluge  over  them  does  boil; 
The  earth  and  water  play  at  level-coil. 

[35] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  fish  ofttimes  the  burgher  dispossessed, 
And  sat,  not  as  a  meat,  but  as  a  guest; 
And  oft  the  Tritons  and  the  sea-nymphs  saw 
Whole  shoals  of  Dutch  served  up  for  cabillau; 
Or,  as  they  over  the  new  lever  ranged, 
For  pickled  herring,  pickled  heeren  changed. 
Nature,  it  seemed,  ashamed  of  her  mistake, 
Would  throw  their  land  away  at  duck  and  drake, 
Therefore  necessity,  that  first  make  kings, 
Something  like  government  among  them  brings; 
For,  as  with  pigmies,  who  best  kills  the  crane, 
Among  the  hungry  he  that  treasures  grain, 
Among  the  blind  the  one-eyed  blinkard  reigns, 
So  rules  among  the  drowned  he  that  drains. 
Not  who  first  see  the  rising  sun  commands, 
But  who  could  first  discern  the  rising  lands. 
Who  best  could  know  to  pump  an  earth  so  leak, 
Him  they  their  Lord  and  Country's  Father  speak. 
To  make  a  bank  was  a  great  plot  of  state; 
Invent  a  shovel,  and  be  a  magistrate. 
Hence  some  small  dike-grave  unperceived  invades 
The  power,  and  grows,  as  'twere,  a  king  of  spades; 
But,  for  less  envy,  some  joined  states  endures, 
Who  look  like  a  commission  of  the  sewers: 
For  these  Half-anders,  half  wet,  and  half  dry, 
Nor  bear  strict  service,  nor  pure  liberty. 
'Tis  probable  religion,  after  this, 
Came  next  in  order,  which  they  could  not  miss. 
How  could  the  Dutch  but  be  converted,  when 
The  apostles  were  so  many  fishermen? 
Besides,  the  waters  of  themselves  did  rise, 
And,  as  their  land,  so  them  did  rebaptize. 

Andrew  Maruell. 
[36] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM 

SOME  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land: 
In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand, 
A  man  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome: 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong, 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long; 
But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 
Was  chymist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon; 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy! 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes, 
And  both,  to  shew  his  judgment,  in  extremes; 
So  over-violent,  or  over-civil, 
That  every  man  with  him  was  god  or  devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art; 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert: 
Beggared  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late, 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate; 
He  laughed  himself  from  court,  then  sought  relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief; 
For,  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom  and  wise  Achitophel. 
Thus,  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 
He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 

Dry  den. 


[37] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


ON  SHADWELL 

ALL  human  things  are  subject  to  decay, 
And,  when  Fate  summons,  monarchs  must 

obey. 

This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus,  young 
Was  called  to  empire,  and  had  governed  long. 
In  prose  and  verse  was  owned,  without  dispute, 
Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace, 
And  blest  with  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state; 
And  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 
To  reign,  and  wage  immortal  war  with  Wit, 
Cried:       "Tis  resolved;  for  Nature  pleads  that  he 
Should  only  rule  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears, 
Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years; 
Shadwell  alone  of  all  my  sons  is  he 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 
The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 
But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 
Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 
Strike  through,  and  make  a  lucid  interval, 
But  ShadwelPs  genuine  night  admits  no  ray; 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 
Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye, 
And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty — 
Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks  that  shade  the  plain, 
And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 

[38] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Heywood  and  Shirley  were  but  types  of  thee, 
Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology! 
Even  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they, 
Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way." 

John  Dryden. 


T 


SATIRE  ON  EDWARD  HOWARD 

HEY  lie,  dear  Ned,  who  say  thy  brain  is  bar- 
A  ren, 

When  deep  conceits,  like  maggots,  breed  in 
carrion. 

Thy  stumbling  foundered  jade  can  trot  as  high 
As  any  other  Pegasus  can  fly. 
So  the  dull  eel  moves  nimbler  in  the  mud 
Than  all  the  swift-finned  racers  of  the  flood. 
As  skilful  divers  to  the  bottom  fall 
Sooner  than  those  who  cannot  swim  at  all, 
So  in  this  way  of  writing,  without  thinking, 
Thou  hast  a  strange  alacrity  in  sinking. 

Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset. 

ST.  ANTHONY'S  SERMON  TO  THE  FISHES 

SAINT  ANTHONY  at  church 
Was  left  in  the  lurch, 
So  he  went  to  the  ditches 
And  preached  to  the  fishes. 
They  wriggled  their  tails, 
In  the  sun  glanced  their  scales. 

[39] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


The  carps,  with  their  spawn, 

Are  all  thither  drawn; 

Have  opened  their  jaws, 

Eager  for  each  clause. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  carps  so  edified. 

Sharp-snouted  pikes, 
Who  keep  fighting  like  tikes, 
Now  swam  up  harmonious 
To  hear  Saint  Antonius. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  pikes  so  edified. 

And  that  very  odd  fish, 

Who  loves  fast-days,  the  cod-fish- 

The  stock-fish,  I  mean — 

At  the  sermon  was  seen. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  cods  so  edified. 

Good  eels  and  sturgeon, 
Which  aldermen  gorge  on, 
Went  out  of  their  way 
To  hear  preaching  that  day. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  eels  so  edified. 

Crabs  and  turtles  also, 
Who  always  move  low, 
Made  haste  from  the  bottom 
As  if  the  devil  had  got  'em. 

No  sermon  beside 

The  crabs  so  edified. 

[40] 


A   Satire  Anthology 


Fish  great  and  fish  small, 
Lords,  lackeys,  and  all, 
Each  looked  at  the  preacher 
Like  a  reasonable  creature. 

At  God's  word, 

They  Anthony  heard. 

The  sermon  now  ended, 

Each  turned  and  descended; 

The  pikes  went  on  stealing, 

The  eels  went  on  eeling. 
Much  delighted  were  they, 
But  preferred  the  old  way. 

The  crabs  are  backsliders, 

The  stock-fish  thick-siders, 

The  carps  are  sharp-set — 

All  the  sermon  forget. 

Much  delighted  were  they, 
But  preferred  the  old  way. 

Abraham  a  Sancta-Clara. 

INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    TRUE-BORN 
ENGLISHMAN 

SPEAK,  satire;  for  there's  none  can  tell  like  thee 
Whether  'tis  folly,  pride,  or  knavery 
That  makes  this  discontented  land  appear 
Less  happy  now  in  times  of  peace  than  war? 
Why  civil  feuds  disturb  the  nation  more 
Than  all  our  bloody  wars  have  done  before? 
Fools  out  of  favour  grudge  at  knaves  in  place, 
And  men  are  always  honest  in  disgrace; 

[41] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


The  court  preferments  make  men  knaves  in  course, 

But  they  which  would  be  in  them  would  be  worse. 

'Tis  not  at  foreigners  that  we  repine, 

Would  foreigners  their  perquisites  resign; 

The  grand  contention's  plainly  to  be  seen, 

To  get  some  men  put  out,  and  some  put  in. 

For  this  our  senators  make  long  harangues, 

And  florid  members  whet  their  polished  tongues. 

Statesmen  are  always  sick  of  one  disease, 

And  a  good  pension  gives  them  present  ease; 

That's  the  specific  makes  them  all  content 

With  any  king  and  any  government. 

Good  patriots  at  court  abuses  rail, 

And  all  the  nation's  grievances  bewail; 

But  when  the  sovereign's  balsam's  once  applied, 

The  zealot  never  fails  to  change  his  side; 

And  when  he  must  the  golden  key  resign, 

The  railing  spirit  comes  about  again. 

Who  shall  this  bubbled  nation  disabuse, 

While  they  their  own  felicities  refuse, 

Who  the  wars  have  made  such  mighty  pother, 

And  now  are  falling  out  with  one  another: 

With  needless  fears  the  jealous  nation  fill, 

And  always  have  been  saved  against  their  will: 

Who  fifty  millions  sterling  have  disbursed, 

To  be  with  peace  and  too  much  plenty  cursed: 

Who  their  old  monarch  eagerly  undo, 

And  yet  uneasily  obey  the  new  ? 

Search,  satire,  search;  a  deep  incision  make; 

The  poison's  strong,  the  antidote's  too  weak. 

'Tis  pointed  truth  must  manage  this  dispute. 

And  downright  English,  Englishmen  confute. 

[42] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Whet  thy  just  anger  at  the  nation's  pride, 

And  with  keen  phrase  repel  the  vicious  tide; 

To  Englishmen  their  own  beginnings  show, 

And  ask  them  why  they  slight  their  neighbours  so. 

Go  back  to  elder  times  and  ages  past, 

And  nations  into  long  oblivion  cast; 

To  old  Britannia's  youthful  days  retire, 

And  there  for  true-born  Englishmen  inquire. 

Britannia  freely  will  disown  the  name, 

And  hardly  knows  herself  from  whence  they  came; 

Wonders  that  they  of  all  men  should  pretend 

To  birth  and  blood,  and  for  a  name  contend. 

Go  back  to  causes  where  our  follies  dwell, 

And  fetch  the  dark  original  from  hell. 

Speak,  satire,  for  there's  none  like  thee  can  tell. 

Daniel  Defoe. 


AN  EPITAPH 

INTERRED  beneath  this  marble  stone 
Lie  sauntering  Jack  and  idle  Joan. 
While  rolling  threescore  years  and  one 
Did  round  this  globe  their  courses  run. 
If  human  things  went  ill  or  well, 
If  changing  empires  rose  or  fell, 
The  morning  past,  the  evening  came, 
And  found  this  couple  just  the  same. 
They  walked  and  ate,  good  folks.     What  then  ? 
Why,  then  they  walked  and  ate  again; 
They  soundly  slept  the  night  away; 
They  did  just  nothing  all  the  day, 

[43] 


A    S  a  tire   Anthology 


Nor  sister  either  had,  nor  brother; 

They  seemed  just  tallied  for  each  other. 

Their  moral  and  economy 

Most  perfectly  they  made  agree; 

Each  virtue  kept  its  proper  bound, 

Nor  trespassed  on  the  other's  ground. 

Nor  fame  nor  censure  they  regarded; 

They  neither  punished  nor  rewarded. 

He  cared  not  what  the  footman  did; 

Her  maids  she  neither  praised  nor  chid; 

So  every  servant  took  his  course, 

And,  bad  at  first,  they  all  grew  worse; 

Slothful  disorder  filled  his  stable, 

And  sluttish  plenty  decked  her  table. 

Their  beer  was  strong,  their  wine  was  port; 

Their  meal  was  large,  their  grace  was  short. 

They  gave  the  poor  the  remnant  meat, 

Just  when  it  grew  not  fit  to  eat. 

They  paid  the  church  and  parish  rate, 

And  took,  but  read  not,  the  receipt; 

For  which  they  claimed  their  Sunday's  due 

Of  slumbering  in  an  upper  pew. 

No  man's  defects  sought  they  to  know, 

So  never  made  themselves  a  foe. 

No  man's  good  deeds  did  they  commend, 

So  never  raised  themselves  a  friend. 

Nor  cherished  they  relations  poor, 

That  might  decrease  their  present  store; 

Nor  barn  nor  house  did  they  repair, 

That  might  oblige  their  future  heir. 

They  neither  added  nor  confounded; 

They  neither  wanted  nor  abounded. 

[44] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Nor  tear  nor  smile  did  they  employ 

At  news  of  grief  or  public  joy. 

When  bells  were  rung  and  bonfires  made, 

If  asked,  they  ne'er  denied  their  aid; 

Their  jug  was  to  the  ringers  carried, 

Whoever  either  died  or  married. 

Their  billet  at  the  fire  was  found, 

Whoever  was  deposed  or  crowned. 

Nor  good,  nor  bad,  nor  fools,  nor  wise; 

They  would  not  learn,  nor  could  advise; 

Without  love,  hatred,  joy,  or  fear, 

They  led — a  kind  of — as  it  were; 

Nor  wished,  nor  cared,  nor  laughed,  nor  cried- 

And  so  they  lived,  and  so  they  died. 

Matthew  Prior. 


THE  REMEDY  WORSE  THAN  THE 
DISEASE 


I 


SENT  for  Ratcliffe;  was  so  ill, 

That  other  doctors  gave  me  over: 
He  felt  my  pulse,  prescribed  his  pill, 
And  I  was  likely  to  recover. 


But  when  the  wit  began  to  wheeze, 
And  wine  had  warm'd  the  politician, 

Cured  yesterday  of  my  disease, 
I  died  last  night  of  my  physician. 

Matthew  Prior. 

[45] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


TWELVE  ARTICLES 

I 

EST  it  may  more  quarrels  breed, 
I  will  never  hear  you  read. 


L 


II 

By  disputing,  I  will  never, 
To  convince  you,  once  endeavour. 

Ill 

When  a  paradox  you  stick  to, 
I  will  never  contradict  you. 

IV 

When  I  talk,  and  you  are  heedless, 
I  will  show  no  anger  needless. 

V 

When  your  speeches  are  absurd, 
I  will  ne'er  object  a  word. 

VI     . 

When  you,  furious,  argue  wrong, 
I  will  grieve,  and  hold  my  tongue. 

VII 

Not  a  jest  or  humorous  story 
Will  I  ever  tell  before  ye. 

[46] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


To  be  chidden  for  explaining, 
When  you  quite  mistake  the  meaning. 

VIII 

Never  more  will  I  suppose, 
You  can  taste  my  verse  or  prose. 

IX 

You  no  more  at  me  shall  fret, 
While  I  teach  and  you  forget. 

X 

You  shall  never  hear  me  thunder, 
When  you  blunder  on,  and  blunder. 

XI 

Show  your  poverty  of  spirit, 
And  in  dress  place  all  your  merit; 
Give  yourself  ten  thousand  airs: 
That  with  me  shall  break  no  squares, 

XII 

Never  will  I  give  advice, 

Till  you  please  to  ask  me  thrice: 

Which  if  you  in  scorn  reject, 

'Twill  be  just  as  I  expect. 

Thus  we  both  shall  have  our  ends, 

And  continue  special  friends. 

Jonathan  Swift. 

[47] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


THE  FURNITURE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  MIND 

A  SET  of  phrases  learned  by  rote; 
A  passion  for  a  scarlet  coat; 
When  at  a  play,  to  laugh  or  cry, 
Yet  cannot  tell  the  reason  why; 
Never  to  hold  her  tongue  a  minute, 
While  all  she  prates  has  nothing  in  it; 
Whole  hours  can  with  a  coxcomb  sit, 
And  take  his  nonsense  all  for  wit. 
Her  learning  mounts  to  read  a  song, 
But  half  the  words  pronouncing  wrong; 
Has  every  repartee  in  store 
She  spoke  ten  thousand  times  before; 
Can  ready  compliments  supply 
On  all  occasions,  cut  and  dry; 
Such  hatred  to  a  parson's  gown, 
The  sight  would  put  her  in  a  swoon; 
For  conversation  well  endued, 
She  calls  it  witty  to  be  rude; 
And,  placing  raillery  in  railing, 
Will  tell  aloud  your  greatest  failing; 
Nor  make  a  scruple  to  expose 
Your  bandy  leg  or  crooked  nose; 
Can  at  her  morning  tea  run  o'er 
The  scandal  of  the  day  before; 
Improving  hourly  in  her  skill, 
To  cheat  and  wrangle  at  quadrille. 
In  choosing  lace,  a  critic  nice, 
Knows  to  a  groat  the  lowest  price; 

[48] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Can  in  her  female  clubs  dispute 

What  linen  best  the  silk  will  suit, 

What  colours  each  complexion  match, 

And  where  with  art  to  place  a  patch. 

If  chance  a  mouse  creeps  in  her  sight, 

Can  finely  counterfeit  a  fright; 

So  sweetly  screams,  if  it  comes  near  her, 

She  ravishes  all  hearts  to  hear  her. 

Can  dexterously  her  husband  tease, 

By  taking  fits  whene'er  she  please; 

By  frequent  practice  learns  the  trick 

At  proper  seasons  to  be  sick; 

Thinks  nothing  gives  one  airs  so  pretty, 

At  once  creating  love  and  pity. 

If  Molly  happens  to  be  careless. 

And  but  neglects  to  warm  her  hair-lace, 

She  gets  a  cold  as  sure  as  death, 

And  vows  she  scarce  can  fetch  her  breath; 

Admires  how  modest  woman  can 

Be  so  robustious,  like  a  man. 

In  party,  furious  to  her  power, 

A  bitter  Whig,  or  Tory  sour, 

Her  arguments  directly  tend 

Against  the  side  she  would  defend; 

Will  prove  herself  a  Tory  plain, 

From  principles  the  Whigs  maintain, 

And,  to  defend  the  Whiggish  cause, 

Her  topics  from  the  Tories  draws. 

y on  at h an  Swift. 


[49] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


FROM  "THE  LOVE  OF  FAME" 

BEGIN.     Who  first  the  catalogue  shall  grace  ? 
To  quality  belongs  the  highest  place. 
My   lord   comes   forward;   forward  let  him 
come! 

Ye  vulgar!  at  your  peril,  give  him  room: 
He  stands  for  fame  on  his  forefathers'  feet, 
By  heraldry  proved  valiant  or  discreet. 
With  what  a  decent  pride  he  throws  his  eyes 
Above  the  man  by  three  descents  less  wise! 
If  virtues  at  his  noble  hands  you  crave, 
You  bid  him  raise  his  fathers  from  the  grave. 
Men  should  press  forward  in  fame's  glorious  chase; 
Nobles  look  backward,  and  so  lose  the  race. 
Let  high  birth  triumph!     What  can  be  more  great? 
Nothing — but  merit  in  a  low  estate. 
To  virtue's  humblest  son  let  none  prefer 
Vice,  though  descended  from  the  Conqueror. 
Shall  men,  like  figures,  pass  for  high  or  base, 
Slight  or  important,  only  by  their  place  ? 
Titles  are  marks  of  honest  men,  and  wise; 
The  fool  or  knave,  that  wears  a  title,  lies. 


On  buying  books  Lorenzo  long  was  bent, 

But  found,  at  length,  that  it  reduced  his  rent; 

His  farms  were  flown;  when,  lo!  a  sale  comes  on, 

A  choice  collection — what  is  to  be  done  ? 

He  sells  his  last,  for  he  the  whole  will  buy; 

Sells  even  his  house — nay,  wants  whereon  to  lie 

[50] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


So  high  the  generous  ardor  of  the  man 

For  Romans,  Greeks,  and  Orientals  ran. 

When  terms  were  drawn,  and  brought  him  by  the 

clerk, 

Lorenzo  signed  the  bargain — with  his  mark. 
Unlearned  men  of  books  assume  the  care, 
As  eunuchs  are  the  guardians  of  the  fair. 

The  booby  father  craves  a  booby  son, 

And  by  Heaven's  blessing  thinks  himself  undone. 

These  subtle  wights  (so  blind  are  mortal  men, 

Though  satire  couch  them  with  her  keenest  pen) 

Forever  will  hang  out  a  solemn  face, 

To  put  off  nonsense  with  a  better  grace: 

As   perlers  with   some   hero's   head   make   bold — 

Illustrious  mark! — where  pins  are  to  be  sold. 

What's  the  bent  brow,  or  neck  in  thought  reclined  ? 

The  body's  wisdom  to  conceal  the  mind. 

A  man  of  sense  can  artifice  disdain, 

As  men  of  wealth  may  venture  to  go  plain; 

And  be  this  truth  eternal  ne'er  forgot, 

Solemnity's  a  cover  for  a  sot. 

I  find  the  fool,  when  I  behold  the  screen; 

For  'tis  the  wise  man's  interest  to  be  seen. 


And  what  so  foolish  as  the  chance  of  fame  ? 
How  vain  the  prize!  how  impotent  our  aim! 
For  what  are  men  who  grasp  at  praise  sublime, 
But  bubbles  on  the  rapid  stream  of  time, 

[51] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


That  rise  and  fall,  that  swell,  and  are  no  more, 
Born,  and  forgot,  ten  thousand  in  an  hour? 

Thus  all  will  judge,  and  with  one  single  aim, 
To  gain  themselves,  not  give  the  writer  fame. 
The  very  best  ambitiously  advise, 
Half  to  serve  you,  and  half  to  pass  for  wise. 
Critics  on  verse,  as  squibs  on  triumphs  wait, 
Proclaim  the  glory,  and  augment  the  state; 
Hot,  envious,  noisy,  proud,  the  scribbling  fry 
Burn,  hiss,  and  bounce,  waste  paper,  stink,  and  die. 

Edward  Young. 

DR.  DELANY'S  VILLA 

WOULD  you  that  Delville  I  describe  ? 
Believe  me,  sir,  I  will  not  gibe; 
For  who  could  be  satirical 
Upon  a  thing  so  very  small  ? 
You  scarce  upon  the  borders  enter, 
»      Before  you're  at  the  very  centre. 
A  single  crow  can  make  it  night, 
When  o'er  your  farm  she  takes  her  flight: 
Yet,  in  this  narrow  compass,  we 
Observe  a  vast  variety; 

Both  walks,  walls,  meadows,  and  parterres, 
Windows,  and  doors,  and  rooms,  and  stairs, 
And  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods,  and  fields, 
And  hay,  and  grass,  and  corn,  it  yields; 
All  to  your  haggard  brought  so  cheap  in, 
Without  the  mowing  or  the  reaping: 

[52] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  razor,  tho'  to  say't  I'm  loth, 

Would    shave   you    and   your    meadows 

both. 

Tho'  small's  the  farm,  yet  here's  a  house 
Full  large  to  entertain  a  mouse; 
But  where  a  rat  is  dreaded  more 
Than  savage  Caledonian  boar; 
For,  if  it's  enter'd  by  a  rat, 
There  is  no  room  to  bring  a  cat. 
A  little  rivulet  seems  to  steal 
Down  thro'  a  thing  you  call  a  vale, 
Like  tears  adown  a  wrinkled  cheek, 
Like  rain  along  a  blade  of  leek: 
And  this  you  call  your  sweet  meander, 
Which  might  be  suck'd  up  by  a  gander, 
Could  he  but  force  his  nether  bill 
To  scoop  the  channel  of  the  rill. 
For  sure  you'd  make  a  mighty  clutter, 
Were  it  as  big  as  city  gutter. 
Next  come  I  to  your  kitchen  garden, 
Where    one    poor    mouse  would    fare    but 

hard  in; 

And  round  this  garden  is  a  walk, 
No  longer  than  a  tailor's  chalk; 
Thus  I  compare  what  space  is  in  it, 
A  snail  creeps  round  it  in  a  minute. 
One  lettuce  makes  a  shift  to  squeeze 
Up  thro'  a  tuft  you  call  your  trees: 
And,  once  a  year,  a  single  rose 
Peeps  from  the  bud,  but  never  blows; 
In  vain  then  you  expect  its  bloom! 
It  cannot  blow  for  want  of  room. 

[53] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


In  short,  in  all  your  boasted  seat, 

There's  nothing  but  yourself  that's  GREAT. 

Thomas  Sheridan. 

THE    QUIDNUNCKIS 

"T  TOW  vain  are  mortal  man's  endeavours? 

(Said,  at  Dame  Elleot's,  Master  Travers) 
Good  Orleans  dead!  in  truth  'tis  hard: 

Oh,  may  all  statesmen  die  prepar'd! 

I  do  foresee  (and  for  foreseeing 

He  equals  any  man  in  being)     , 

The  army  ne'er  can  be  disbanded. 

I  with  the  king  was  safely  landed. 

Ah,  friends,  great  changes  threat  the  land! 

All  France  and  England  at  a  stand! 

There's  Meroweis — mark!  strange  work! 

And  there's  the  Czar,  and  there's  the  Turk — 

The  Pope — "     An  Indian  merchant  by, 

Cut  short  the  speech  with  this  reply: 

"All  at  a  stand?     You  see  great  changes? 

Ah,  sir,  you  never  saw  the  Ganges. 

There  dwells  the  nation  of  Quidnunckis 

(So  Monomotapa  calls  monkeys); 

On  either  bank,  from  bough  to  bough, 

They  meet  and  chat  (as  we  may  now); 

Whispers  go  round,  they  grin,  they  shrug, 

They  bow,  they  snarl,  they  scratch,  they  hug; 

And,  just  as  chance  or  whim  provoke  them, 

They  either  bite  their  friends,  or  stroke  them. 

There  have  I  seen  some  active  prig, 

To  show  his  parts,  bestride  a  twig. 

[54] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Lord,  how  the  chatt'ring  tribe  admire! 
Not  that  he's  wiser,  but  he's  higher. 
All  long  to  try  the  vent'rous  thing 
(For  power  is  but  to  have  one's  swing); 
From  side  to  side  he  springs,  he  spurns, 
And  bangs  his  foes  and  friends  by  turns. 
Thus  as  in  giddy  freaks  he  bounces, 
Crack  goes  the  twig,  and  in  he  flounces! 
Down  the  swift  stream  the  wretch  is  borne, 
Never,  ah,  never  to  return! 
Zounds!  what  a  fall  had  our  dear  brother! 
Morbleu!  cries  one,  and  damme,  t'other. 
The  nation  gives  a  general  screech; 
None  cocks  his  tail,  none  claws  his  breech; 
Each  trembles  for  the  public  weal, 
And  for  awhile  forgets  to  steal. 
Awhile  all  eyes  intent  and  steady 
Pursue  him  whirling  down  the  eddy: 
But,  out  of  mind  when  out  of  view, 
Some  other  mounts  the  twig  anew; 
And  business  on  each  monkey  shore 
Runs  the  same  track  it  ran  before." 

"John  Gay. 

THE  SICK  MAN  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

IS  there  no  hope?  the  Sick  Man  said. 
The  silent  doctor  shook  his  head, 

And  took  his  leave  with  signs  of  sorrow, 
Despairing  of  his  fee  to-morrow. 
When  thus  the  Man  with  gasping  breath: 
"  I  feel  the  chilling  wound  of  death; 

[55] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Since  I  must  bid  the  world  adieu, 

Let  me  my  former  life  review. 

I  grant,  my  bargains  well  were  made, 

But  all  men  overreach  in  trade; 

'Tis  self-defence  in  each  profession; 

Sure,  self-defence  is  no  transgression. 

The  little  portion  in  my  hands, 

By  good  security  on  lands, 

Is  well  increased.     If  unawares, 

My  justice  to  myself  and  heirs 

Hath  let  my  debtor  rot  in  jail, 

For  want  of  good  sufficient  bail; 

If  I  by  writ,  or  bond,  or  deed, 

Reduce  a  family  to  need, 

My  will  hath  made  the  world  amends; 

My  hope  on  charity  depends. 

When  I  am  numbered  with  the  dead, 

And  all  my  pious  gifts  are  read, 

By  heaven  and  earth  'twill  then  be  known, 

My  charities  were  amply  shown." 

An  angel  came.     "Ah,  friend,"  he  cried, 

"No  more  in  flattering  hope  confide. 

Can  thy  good  deeds  in  former  times 

Outweigh  the  balance  of  thy  crimes  ? 

What  widow  or  what  orphan  prays 

To  crown  thy  life  with  length  of  days  ? 

A  pious  action's  in  thy  power; 

Embrace  with  joy  the  happy  hour. 

Now,  while  you  draw  the  vital  air, 

Prove  your  intention  is  sincere: 

This  instant  give  a  hundred  pounds; 

Your  neighbours  want,  and  you  abound." 

[56] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"  But  why  such  haste  ? "  the  Sick  Man  whines : 
"Who  knows  as  yet  what  Heaven  designs? 
Perhaps  I  may  recover  still; 
That  sum,  and  more,  are  in  my  will." 
"Fool,"  says  the  Vision,  "now  'tis  plain, 
Your  life,  your  soul,  your  heaven  was  gain; 
From  every  side,  with  all  your  might, 
You  scraped,  and  scraped  beyond  your  right; 
And  after  death  would  fain  atone, 
By  giving  what  is  not  your  own." 
"Where  there  is  life  there's  hope,"  he  cried; 
"  Then  why  such  haste  ? " — so  groaned,  and  died. 

"John  Gay. 

SANDYS'  GHOST 


Y 


E  Lords  and  Commons,  men  of  wit 

And  pleasure  about  town, 
Read  this,  ere  you  translate  one  bit 
Of  books  of  high  renown. 


Beware  of  Latin  authors  all! 

Nor  think  your  verses  sterling, 
Though  with  a  golden  pen  you  scrawl, 

And  scribble  in  a  Berlin; 

For  not  the  desk  with  silver  nails, 
Nor  bureau  of  expense, 

[57] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Nor  standish  well  japanned  avails 
To  writing  of  good  sense. 

Hear  how  a  ghost  in  dead  of  night, 

With  saucer  eyes  of  fire, 
In  woful  wise  did  sore  affright 

A  wit  and  courtly  squire. 

Rare  Imp  of  Phoebus,  hopeful  youth, 

Like  puppy  tame  that  uses 
To  fetch  and  carry,  in  his  mouth, 

The  works  of  all  the  Muses. 

Ah,  why  did  he  write  poetry, 

That  hereto  was  so  civil, 
And  sell  his  soul  for  vanity, 

To  rhyming  and  the  devil? 

A  desk  he  had  of  curious  work, 

With  glittering  studs  about; 
Within  the  same  did  Sandys  lurk, 

Though  Ovid  lay  without. 

Now,  as  he  scratched  to  fetch  up  thought, 
Forth  popped  the  sprite  so  thin, 

And  from  the  key-hole  bolted  out, 
All  upright  as  a  pin, 

With  whiskers,  band,  and  pantaloon, 
And  ruff  composed  most  duly. 

The  squire  he  dropped  his  pen  full  soon, 
While  as  the  light  burnt  bluely. 

[58] 


A    Satire   Anthology 

"Ho!  Master  Sam,"  quoth  Sandys'  sprite, 
"Write  on,  nor  let  me  scare  ye; 

Forsooth,  if  rhymes  fall  in  not  right, 
To  Budgell  seek,  or  Carey. 

"I  hear  the  beat  of  Jacob's  drums; 

Poor  Ovid  finds  no  quarter. 
See   first  the   merry   P —    -  comes 

In  haste,  without  his  garter. 

"Then  lords  and  lordlings,  squires  and 
knights, 

Wits,  witlings,  prigs,  and  peers; 
Garth  at  St.  James's,  and  at  White's, 

Beat  up  for  volunteers. 

"What  Fenton  will  not  do,  nor  Gay, 
Nor  Congreve,  Rowe,  nor  Stanyan, 

Tom  Burnett  or  Tom  D'Urfey  may, 
John  Dunton,  Steele,  or  anyone. 

"If  Justice  Philips'  costive  head 
Some  frigid  rhymes  disburses, 

They  shall  like  Persian  tales  be  read, 
And  glad  both  babes  and  nurses. 

"Let  Warwick's  muse  with  Ashurst  join, 
And  Ozell's  with  Lord  Hervey's; 

Tickell  and  Addison  combine, 
And  Pope  translate  with  Jervas. 

[59] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"Lansdowne  himself,  that  lively  lord, 

Who  bows  to  every  lady, 
Shall  join  with  Frowde  in  one  accord, 

And  be  like  Tate  and  Brady. 

"Ye  ladies,  too,  draw  forth  your  pen; 

I  pray  where  can  the  hurt  lie  ? 
Since  you  have  brains  as  well  as  men, 

As  witness  Lady  Wortley. 

"Now,  Tonson,  'list  thy  forces  all, 

Review  them,  and  tell  noses; 
For  to  poor  Ovid  shall  befall 

A  strange  metamorphosis; 

"A  metamorphosis  more  strange 

Than  all  his  books  can  vapour." 
"To  what"  (quoth  squire)  "shall  Ovid 

change  ?" 
Quoth  Sandys,  "To  waste  paper." 

Alexander  Pope. 


FROM  "THE  EPISTLE  TO  DR. 
ARBUTHNOT " 

SHUT,  shut  the  door,  good  John!  "  fatigued  I 
said; 

Tie  up  the  knocker;  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  dog-star  rages!  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt, 
All  Bedlam,  or  Parnassus,  is  let  out; 
[60] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand, 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide  ? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they  glide. 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge; 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free; 
Ev'n  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day  to  me; 
Then  from  the  Mint  walks  forth  the  man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me — just  at  dinner-time. 
Is  there  a  parson  much  bemus'd  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk  foredoom'd  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza  when  he  should  engross  ? 
Is  there,  who,  lock'd  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darken'd  walls  ? 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws, 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damn'd  works  the  cause; 
Poor  Cornus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope, 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 
Friend  to  my  life  (which  did  you  not  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song), 
What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove  ? 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love  ? 
A  dire  dilemma — either  way  I'm  sped; 
If  foes,  they  write;  if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Seiz'd  and  ty'd  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I, 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie. 
To  laugh,  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace; 
And  to  be  grave,  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 
[61] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


I  sit  with  sad  civility;  I  read 

With  honest  anguish,  and  an  aching  head, 

And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears, 

This     saving     counsel,   "  Keep    your    piece    nine 

years." 

"Nine  years!"  cries  he,  who  high  in  Drury  Lane, 
LulFd  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane, 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  term  ends, 
Oblig'd  by  hunger,  and  request  of  friends: 
"The  piece,  you  think,  is  incorrect?     Why  take  it; 
I'm  all  submission;  what  you'd  have  it,  make  it." 
Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound, 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound. 
Pitholeon  sends  to  me:     "You  know  his  grace. 
I  want  a  patron:   ask  him  for  a  place." 
Pitholeon  libell'd  me.     "  But  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  'twas  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him  ?     Curll  invites  to  dine; 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine." 
Bless  me!  a  packet.      "Tis  a  stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  muse." 
If  I  dislike  it,  "Juries,  death,  and  rage!" 
If  I  approve,  "Commend  it  to  the  stage." 
There  (thank  my  stars!),    my  whole  commission 

ends; 

The  players  and  I  are  luckily  no  friends. 
Fir'd   that   the   house   reject  him,  "'Sdeath!     I'll 

print  it, 
And    shame    the    fools.     Your   interest,    sir,   with 

Lintot." 

"  Lintot,  dull  rogue !  will  think  your  price  too  much." 
"Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it,  and  retouch." 
[62] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks; 
At  last  he  whispers,  "Do,  and  we  go  snacks." 
Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door: 
"Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no  more!" 

Alexander  Pope. 

THE  THREE  BLACK  CROWS 

TWO  honest  tradesmen  meeting  in  the  Strand, 
One  took  the  other  briskly  by  the  hand; 
"Hark-ye,"  said  he,  "'tis  an  odd  story,  this, 
About  the  crows!"     "I  don't  know  what  it  is," 
Replied  his  friend.     "No!   I'm  surprised  at  that; 
Where  I  came  from  it  is  the  common  chat; 
But  you  shall  hear — an  odd  affair  indeed! 
And  that  it  happened,  they  are  all  agreed. 
Not  to  detain  you  from  a  thing  so  strange, 
A  gentleman,  that  lives  not  far  from  'Change, 
This  week,  in  short,  as  all  the  alley  knows, 
Taking  a  puke,  has  thrown  up  three  black  crows." 
"Impossible!"     "Nay,  but  it's  really  true; 
I  have  it  from  good  hands,  and  so  may  you." 
"  From  whose,  I  pray  ?"  So,  having  named  the  man, 
Straight  to  inquire  his  curious  comrade  ran. 
"Sir,  did  you  tell" — relating  the  affair. 
"Yes,  sir,  I  did;  and,  if  it's  worth  your  care, 
Ask  Mr.  Such-a-one,  he  told  it  me. 
But,  by  the  bye,  'twas  two  black  crows — not  three." 
Resolved  to  trace  so  wondrous  an  event. 
Whip,  to  the  third,  the  virtuoso  went; 
"Sir" — -and  so  forth.     "Why,  yes;  the  thing  is  fact, 
Though,  in  regard  to  number,  not  exact; 

[63] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


It  was  not  two  black  crows — 'twas  only  one; 
The  truth  of  that  you  may  depend  upon; 
The  gentleman  himself  told  me  the  case." 
"Where   may   I    find   him?"     "Why,    in    such  a 

place." 

Away  goes  he,  and,  having  found  him  out, 
"Sir,  be  so  good  as  to  resolve  a  doubt." 
Then  to  his  last  informant  he  referred, 
And  begged  to  know  if  true  what  he  had  heard. 
"Did  you,  sir,  throw  up  a  black  crow?"     "Not  I." 
"Bless  me!  how  people  propagate  a  lie! 
Black  crows  have  been  thrown  up,  three,  two,  and 

one; 

And  here,  I  find,  all  comes,  at  last,  to  none. 
Did  you  say  nothing  of  a  crow  at  all  ?" 
"Crow — crow — perhaps  I  might,  now  I  recall 
The  matter  over."     "And  pray,  sir,  what  was't?" 
"Why,  I  was  horrid  sick,  and,  at  the  last, 
I  did  throw  up,  and  told  my  neighbor  so, 
Something  that  was — as  black,  sir,  as  a  crow." 

"John  Byrom. 

AN  EPITAPH 

A  LOVELY  young  lady  I  mourn  in  my  rhymes; 
She  was  pleasant,  good-natured,  and  civil 

(sometimes); 

Her  figure  was  good;  she  had  very  fine  eyes, 
And  her  talk  was  a  mixture  of  foolish  and  wise. 
Her  adorers  were  many,  and  one  of  them  said 
"She  waltzed  rather  well — it's  a  pity  she's  dead." 

George  'John  Cayley. 

[64] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE 

WHILE  at  the  helm  of  State  you  ride, 
Our  nation's  envy,  and  its  pride; 
While  foreign  courts  with  wonder  gaze, 
And  curse  those  counsels  that  they  praise; 
Would  you  not  wonder,  sir,  to  view 
Your  bard  a  greater  man  than  you  ? 
Which  that  he  is,  you  cannot  doubt, 
When  you  have  read  the  sequel  out. 

You  know,  great  sir,  that  ancient  fellows, 
Philosophers,  and  such  folks,  tell  us, 
No  great  analogy  between 
Greatness  and  happiness  is  seen. 
If,  then,  as  it  might  follow  straight, 
Wretched  to  be,  is  to  be  great, 
Forbid  it,  gods,  that  you  should  try 
What  'tis  to  be  so  great  as  I! 

The  family  that  dines  the  latest 
Is  in  our  street  esteem'd  the  greatest; 
But  latest  hours  must  surely  fall 
'Fore  him  who  never  dines  at  all. 
Your  taste  in  architect,  you  know, 
Hath  been  admired  by  friend  and  foe; 
But  can  your  earthly  domes  compare 
With  all  my  castles — in  the  air? 
We're  often  taught,  it  doth  behove  us 
To  think  those  greater  who're  above  us; 

[65] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Another  instance  of  my  glory, 
Who  live  above  you,  twice  two  story, 
And  from  my  garret  can  look  down 
On  the  whole  street  of  Arlington. 

Greatness  by  poets  still  is  painted 
With  many  followers  acquainted; 
This,  too,  doth  in  my  favour  speak; 
Your  levee  is  but  twice  a  week; 
From  mine  I  can  exclude  but  one  day — 
My  door  is  quiet  on  a  Sunday. 

Nor  in  the  manner  of  attendance 

Doth  your  great  bard  claim  less  ascendance; 

Familiar,  you  to  admiration 

May  be  approached  by  all  the  nation; 

While  I,  like  the  Mogul  in  Indo, 

Am  never  seen  but  at  my  window. 

If  with  my  greatness  you're  offended, 

The  fault  is  easily  amended; 

For  I'll  come  down,  with  wondrous  ease, 

Into  whatever  place  you  please. 

I'm  not  ambitious;  little  matters 

Will  serve  us,  great  but  humble  creatures. 

Suppose  a  secretary  o'  this  isle, 
Just  to  be  doing  with  a  while; 
Admiral,  general,  judge,  or  bishop — 
Or  I  can  foreign  treaties  dish  up. 
If  the  good  genius  of  the  nation 
Should  call  me  to  negotiation, 
[66] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Tuscan  and  French  are  in  my  head; 
Latin  I  write,  and  Greek — I  read. 
If  you  should  ask,  What  pleases  best? 
To  get  the  most,  and  do  the  least. 
What  fittest  for?     You  know,  I'm  sure: 
I'm  fittest  for — a  sinecure. 

Henry  Fielding. 


THE  PUBLIC  BREAKFAST 

NOW  my  lord  had  the  honour  of  coming  down 
post, 

To  pay  his  respects  to  so  famous  a  toast, 
In  hopes  he  her  ladyship's  favour  might  win, 
By  playing  the  part  of  a  host  at  an  inn. 
I'm  sure  he's  a  person  of  great  resolution, 
Though  delicate  nerves  and  a  weak  constitution; 
For  he  carried  us  all  to  a  place  'cross  the  river, 
And  vowed  that  the  rooms  were  too  hot  for  his 

liver. 

He  said  it  would  greatly  our  pleasure  promote, 
If  we  all  for  Spring  Gardens  set  out  in  a  boat. 
I  never  as  yet  could  his  reason  explain, 
Why  we  all  sallied  forth  in  the  wind  and  the  rain; 
For  sure  such  confusion  was  never  yet  known; 
Here  a  cap  and  a  hat,  there  a  cardinal  blown; 
While  his  lordship,  embroidered  and  powdered  all 

o'er, 

Was  bowing,  and  handing  the  ladies  ashore. 
How  the  Misses  did  huddle,  and  scuddle,  and  run! 
One  would  think  to  be  wet  must  be  very  good  fun; 

[67] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


For  by  waggling  their  tails,  they  all  seemed  to  take 

pains 

To  moisten  their  pinions  like  ducks  when  it  rains. 
And  'twas    pretty   to    see    how,    like    birds    of  a 

feather, 

The  people  of  quality  flocked  all  together; 
All  pressing,  addressing,  caressing,  and  fond, 
Just  the  same  as  these  animals  are  in  a  pond. 
You've  read  all  their  names  in  the  news,  I  suppose, 
But,  for  fear  you  have  not,  take  the  list  as  it  goes: 

There  was  Lady  Greasewrister, 

And  Madam  Van-Twister, 

Her  ladyship's  sister; 

Lord  Cram,  and  Lord  Vulter, 

Sir  Brandish  O'Culter, 

With  Marshal  Carouzer, 

And  old  Lady  Mouzer, 

And  the  great  Hanoverian  Baron  Panzmowzer; 
Besides  many  others,  who  all  in  the  rain  went, 
On  purpose  to  honour  this  great  entertainment. 
The  company  made  a  most  brilliant  appearance, 
And  ate  bread  and  butter  with  great  perseverance; 
All  the  chocolate,  too,  that  my  lord  set  before  'em, 
The  ladies  despatched  with  the  utmost  decorum. 
Soft  musical  numbers  were  heard  all  around, 
The  horns  and  the  clarions  echoing  sound. 
Sweet  were  the  strains,  as  odourous  gales  that  blow 
O'er  fragrant  banks,  where  pinks  and  roses  grow. 
The  peer  was  quite  ravish,  while  close  to  his  side 
Sat  Lady  Bunbutter,  in  beautiful  pride. 
Oft  turning  his  eyes,  he  with  rapture  surveyed 
All  the  powerful  charms  she  so  nobly  displayed; 

[68] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


As  when  at  the  feast  of  the  great  Alexander, 
Timotheus,  the  musical  son  of  Thersander, 
Breathed  heavenly  measures. 

The  prince  was  in  pain, 

And  could  not  contain, 
While  Thais  was  sitting  beside  him; 

But,  before  all  his  peers, 

Was  for  shaking  the  spheres, 
Such  goods  the  kind  gods  did  provide  him. 

Grew  bolder  and  bolder, 

And  cocked  up  his  shoulder, 
Like  the  son  of  great  Jupiter  Ammon, 

Till  at  length,  quite  opprest, 

He  sunk  on  her  breast, 
And  lay  there,  as  dead  as  a  salmon. 

Oh,  had  I  a  voice  that  was  stronger  than  steel, 
With  twice  fifty  tongues  to  express  what  I  feel, 
And  as  many  good  mouths,  yet  I  never  could  utter 
All  the  speeches  my  lord  made  to  Lady  Bunbutter! 
So  polite  all  the  time,  that  he  ne'er  touched  a  bit, 
While  she  ate  up  his  rolls  and  applauded  his  wit; 
For  they  tell  me  that  men  of  true  taste,  when  they 

treat, 
Should  talk  a  great  deal,  but  they  never  should 

eat; 

And  if  that  be  the  fashion,  I  never  will  give 
Any  grand  entertainment  as  long  as  I  live; 
For  I'm  of  opinion,  'tis  proper  to  cheer 
The  stomach  and  bowels  as  well  as  the  ear. 
Nor  me  did  the  charming  concerto  of  Abel 
Regale  like  the  breakfast  I  saw  on  the  table; 

[69] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


I  freely  will  own  I  the  muffins  preferred 

To  all  the  genteel  conversation  I  heard. 

E'en  though  I'd  the  honour  of  sitting  between 

My  Lady  Stuff-damask  and  Peggy  Moreen, 

Who  both  flew  to  Bath  in  the  nightly  machine. 

Cries  Peggy:    "This  place  is  enchantingly  pretty; 

We  never  can  see  such  a  thing  in  the  city. 

You  may  spend  all  your  lifetime  in  Cateaton  Street, 

And  never  so  civil  a  gentleman  meet; 

You  may  talk  what  you  please,  you  may  search 

London  through, 

You  may  go  to  Carlisle's,  and  to  Almack's,  too, 
And  I'll  give  you  my  head  if  you  find  such  a  host, 
For  coffee,  tea,  chocolate,  butter,  and  toast. 
How  he  welcomes  at  once  all  the  world  and  his 

wife, 

And  how  civil  to  folks  he  ne'er  saw  in  his  life!" 
"These   horns,"   cries    my  lady,  "so  tickle  one's 

ear, 

Lord !  what  would  I  give  that  Sir  Simon  was  here! 
To  the  next  public  breakfast  Sir  Simon  shall  go, 
For  I  find  here  are  folks  one  may  venture  to  know. 
Sir  Simon  would  gladly  his  lordship  attend, 
And  my  lord  would  be  pleased  with  so  cheerful  a 

friend." 

So,  when  we  had  wasted  more  bread  at  a  breakfast 
Than  the  poor  of  our  parish  have  ate  for  this  week 

past, 

I  saw,  all  at  once,  a  prodigious  great  throng 
Come  bustling,  and  rustling,  and  jostling  along; 
For  his  lordship  was  pleased  that  the  company  now 
To  my  Lady  Bunbutter  should  courtesy  and  bow; 

[70] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  my  lady  was  pleased,  too,  and  seemed  vastly 

proud 

At  once  to  receive  all  the  thanks  of  a  crowd. 
And  when,  like  Chaldeans,  we  all  had  adored 
This  beautiful  image  set  up  by  my  lord, 
Some  few  insignificant  folk  went  away, 
Just  to  follow  the  employments  and  calls  of  the 

day; 

But  those  who  knew  better  their  time  how  to  spend, 
The  fiddling  and  dancing  all  chose  to  attend. 
Miss  Clunch  and  Sir  Toby  performed  a  cotillion, 
Just  the  same  as  our  Susan  and  Bob  the  postilion; 
All  the  while  her  mamma  was  expressing  her  joy 
That   her    daughter  the   morning    so   well   could 

employ. 

Now,  why  should  the  Muse,  my  dear  mother,  re- 
late 

The  misfortunes  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  great  ? 
As    homeward   we   came,   'tis  with    sorrow  you'll 

hear 

What  a  dreadful  disaster  attended  the  peer; 
For  whether  some  envious  god  had  decreed 
That  a  naiad  should  long  to  ennoble  the  breed, 
Or  whether  his  lordship  was  charmed  to  behold 
His  face  in  the  stream,  like  Narcissus  of  old, 
In  handing  old  Lady  B —  —  and  daughter, 
This  obsequious  lord  tumbled  into  the  water; 
But  a  nymph  of  the  flood  brought  him  safe  to  the 

boat, 
And  I  left  all  the  ladies  a-cleaning  his  coat. 

Christopher  Anstey. 

[71] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD 
DOG 

•/^  OOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 
1   ~T"         Give  ear  unto  my  song; 

And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends, 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbours  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

[72] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied: 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


ON  SMOLLETT 

WHENCE  could  arise  this  mighty  critic  spleen, 
The  muse  a  trifler,  and  her  theme  so  mean  ? 
What  had  I  done  that  angry  Heaven  should 
send 

The  bitterest  foe  where  most  I  wished  a  friend  ? 
Oft  hath  my  tongue  been  wanton  at  thy  name, 
And  hailed  the  honours  of  thy  matchless  fame. 
For  me  let  hoary  Fielding  bite  the  ground, 
So  nobler  Pickle  stand  superbly  bound; 
From  Livy's  temples  tear  the  historic  crown, 
Which  with  more  justice  blooms  upon  thine  own. 
Compared  with  thee,  be  all  life-writers  dumb, 
But  he  who  wrote  the  life  of  Tommy  Thumb. 
Who  ever  read  "The  Regicide"  but  swore 
The  author  wrote  as  man  ne'er  wrote  before  ? 
Others  for  plots  and  under-plots  may  call; 
Here's  the  right  method — have  no  plot  at  all! 

Charles  Churchill. 

[73] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  UNCERTAIN  MAN 

DUBIUS  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man — 
Yes,  you  may  catch  him  tripping,  if  you  can. 
He  would  not  with  a  peremptory  tone 
Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his  own; 
With  hesitation  admirably  slow, 
He  humbly  hopes — presumes — it  may  be  so. 
His  evidence,  if  he  were  called  by  law 
To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw, 
For  want  of  prominence  and  just  belief, 
Would  hang  an  honest  man  and  save  a  thief. 
Through  constant  dread  of  giving  truth  offence, 
He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense; 
Knows  what  he  knows  as  if  he  knew  it  not; 
What  he  remembers,  seems  to  have  forgot; 
His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall, 
Centring  at  last  in  having  none  at  all. 

William  Cow  per. 


A  FAITHFUL  PICTURE  OF  ORDINARY 
SOCIETY 

THE  circle  formed,  we  sit  in  silent  state, 
Like  figures  drawn   upon  a   dial-plate. 
"Yes,  ma'am"  and  "No,  ma'am"  uttered 
softly,  show 

Every  five  minutes  how  the  minutes  go. 
Each  individual,  suffering  a  constraint — 
Poetry  may,  but  colours  cannot,  paint — 

[74] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


As  if  in  close  committee  on  the  sky, 

Reports  it  hot  or  cold,  or  wet  or  dry, 

And  finds  a  changing  clime  a  happy  source 

Of  wise  reflection  and  well-timed  discourse. 

We  next  inquire,  but  softly  and  by  stealth, 

Like  conservators  of  the  public  health, 

Of  epidemic  throats,  if  such  there  are 

Of  coughs  and  rheums,  and  phthisic  and  catarrh. 

That  theme  exhausted,  a  wide  chasm  ensues, 

Filled  up  at  last  with  interesting  news: 

Who  danced  with  whom,  and  who  are  like  to  wed; 

And  who  is  hanged,  and  who  is  brought  to  bed, 

But  fear  to  call  a  more  important  cause, 

As  if  'twere  treason  against  English  laws. 

The  visit  paid,  with  ecstasy  we  come, 

As  from  a  seven  years'  transportation,  home 

And  there  resume  an  unembarrassed  brow, 

Recovering  what  we  lost  we  know  not  how, 

The  faculties  that  seemed  reduced  to  naught, 

Expression,  and  the  privilege  of  thought. 

William  Cowper. 

ON  JOHNSON 

I  OWN  I  like  not  Johnson's  turgid  style, 
That  gives  an  inch  th'  importance  of  a  mile; 
Casts  of  manure  a  wagon-load  around, 
To  raise  a  simple  daisy  from  the  ground; 
Uplifts  the  club  of  Hercules — for  what  ? 
To  crush  a  butterfly  or  brain  a  gnat; 
Creates  a  whirlwind  from  the  earth,  to  draw 
A  goose's  feather  or  exalt  a  straw; 

[75] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Sets  wheels  on  wheels  in  motion — such  a  clatter — 
To  force  up  one  poor  nipperkin  of  water; 
Bids  ocean  labour  with  tremendous  roar 
To  heave  a  cockle-shell  upon  the  shore; 
Alike  in  every  theme  his  pompous  art, 
Heaven's  awful  thunder  or  a  rumbling  cart! 

John  Wolcott  (Peter  Pindar}. 


TO  BOSWELL 

OBOSWELL,    Bozzy,    Bruce,  whate'er    thy 
name, 

Thou  mighty  shark  for  anecdote  and  fame, 
Thou  jackal,  leading  lion  Johnson  forth 
To  eat  Macpherson  midst  his  native  north, 
To  frighten  grave  professors  with  his  roar, 
And  shake  the  Hebrides  from  shore  to  shore, 

All  hail! 

Triumphant  thou  through  time's  vast  gulf  shalt  sail, 
The  pilot  of  our  literary  whale; 
Close  to  the  classic  Rambler  shalt  thou  cling, 
Close  as  a  supple  courtier  to  a  king; 
Fate  shall  not  shake  thee  off  with  all  its  power, 
Stuck  like  a  bat  to  some  old  ivied  tower. 
Nay,  though  thy  Johnson  ne'er  had  blessed  thy 

eyes, 

Paoli's  deeds  had  raised  thee  to  the  skies: 
Yes,  his  broad  wing  had  raised  thee  (no  bad  hack), 
A  tomtit  twittering  on  an  eagle's  back. 

John  Wolcott  (Peter  Pindar). 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  HEN 

WAS  once  a  hen  of  wit  not  small 
(In  fact,  'twas  not  amazing), 
And  apt  at  laying  eggs  withal, 
Who,  when  she'd  done,  would  scream  and 
bawl, 

As  if  the  house  were  blazing. 
A  turkey-cock,  of  age  mature, 

Felt  thereat  indignation; 
'Twas  quite  improper,  he  was  sure — 
He  would  no  more  the  thing  endure; 

So,  after  cogitation, 
He  to  the  lady  straight  repaired, 
And  thus  his  business  he  declared: 

"Madam,  pray,  what's  the  matter, 
That  always,  when  you've  laid  an  egg, 

You  make  so  great  a  clatter? 
I  wish  you'd  do  the  thing  in  quiet. 
Do  be  advised  by  me,  and  try  it." 
"Advised  by  you!"   the  lady  cried, 
And  tossed  her  head  with  proper  pride; 
"And  what  do  you  know,  now  I  pray, 
Of  the  fashion  of  the  present  day, 
You  creature  ignorant  and  low  ? 
However,  if  you  want  to  know, 
This  is  the  reason  why  I  do  it: 
I  lay  my  egg,  and  then  review  it!" 

Matthew  Claudius. 


[77] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


LET  US  ALL  BE  UNHAPPY  TOGETHER 

WE  bipeds,  made  up  of  frail  clay, 
Alas!  are  the  children  of  sorrow; 
And,  though  brisk  and  merry  to-day, 
We  may  all  be  unhappy  to-morrow. 
For  sunshine's  succeeded  by  rain; 

Then,  fearful  of  life's  stormy  weather, 
Lest  pleasure  should  only  bring  pain, 
Let  us  all  be  unhappy  together. 

I  grant  the  best  blessing  we  know 

Is  a  friend,  for  true  friendship's  a  treasure; 
And  yet,  lest  your  friend  prove  a  foe, 

Oh,  taste  not  the  dangerous  pleasure. 
Thus,  friendship's  a  flimsy  affair; 

Thus,  riches  and  health  are  a  bubble; 
Thus,  there's  nothing  delightful  but  care, 

Nor  anything  pleasing  but  trouble. 

If  a  mortal  could  point  out  that  life 

Which  on  earth  could  be  nearest  to  heaven, 
Let  him,  thanking  his  stars,  choose  a  wife 

To  whom  truth  and  honour  are  given. 
But  honour  and  truth  are  so  rare, 

And  horns,  when  they're  cutting,  so  tingle, 
That,  with  all  my  respect  to  the  fair, 

I'd  advise  him  to  sigh,  and  live  single. 

It  appears  from  these  premises  plain, 
That  wisdom  is  nothing  but  folly; 

That  pleasure's  a  term  that  means  pain, 
And  that  joy  is  your  true  melancholy; 

[78] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


That  all  those  who  laugh  ought  to  cry; 

That  'tis  fine  frisk  and  fun  to  be  grieving; 
And  that,  since  we  must  all  of  us  die, 

We  should  taste  no  enjoyment  while  living. 

Charles  Dtbdtn. 

THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY 

I  AM  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 
And  down  in  the  valleys  I  take  my  way; 

I  pull  not  blackberry,  haw,  or  hip; 
Good  store  of  venison  fills  my  scrip; 
My  long  bead-roll  I  merrily  chant; 
Where'er  I  walk  no  money  I  want; 
And  why  I'm  so  plump  the  reason  I  tell: 
Who  leads  a  good  life  is  sure  to  live  well. 

What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 

Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 

After  supper,  of  heaven  I  dream, 
But  that  is  a  pullet  and  clouted  cream; 
Myself  by  denial  I  mortify — 
With  a  dainty  bit  of  a  warden-pie; 
I'm  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin — 
With  old  sack  wine  I'm  lined  within; 
A  chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song, 
And  the  vesper's  bell  is  my  bowl,  ding-dong. 
What  baron  or  squire, 
Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 

"John  O'Keefe. 

[79] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  COUNTRY  SQUIRE 

A  COUNTRY  squire,  of  greater  wealth  than 
wit 

(For  fools  are  often  bless'd  with  fortune's 
smile), 

Had  built  a  splendid  house,  and  furnish'd  it 
In  splendid  style. 

"One  thing  is  wanted,"  said  a  friend;  "for,  though 

The  rooms  are  fine,  the  furniture  profuse, 
You  lack  a  library,  dear  sir,  for  show, 
If  not  for  use." 

"Tis  true;  but,  zounds!"  replied  the  squire  with 

glee, 

"The  lumber-room  in  yonder  northern  wing 
(I  wonder  I  ne'er  thought  of  it)  will  be 
The  very  thing. 

"I'll  have  it  fitted  up  without  delay 

With  shelves  and  presses  of  the  newest  mode. 
And  rarest  wood,  befitting  every  way 
A  squire's  abode. 

"And  when  the  whole  is  ready,  I'll  despatch 

My  coachman — a  most  knowing  fellow — down, 
To  buy  me,  by  admeasurement,  a  batch 
Of  books  in  town." 
[80] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  ere  the  library  was  half  supplied 

With  all  its  pomp  of  cabinet  and  shelf, 
The  booby  squire  repented  him,  and  cried 
Unto  himself: 

"This  room  is  much  more  roomy  than  I  thought; 

Ten  thousand  volumes  hardly  would  suffice 
To  fill  it,  and  would  cost,  however  bought, 
A  plaguy  price. 

"Now,  as  I  only  want  them  for  their  looks, 

It  might,  on  second  thoughts,  be  just  as  good, 
And  cost  me  next  to  nothing,  if  the  books 
Were  made  of  wood. 

"It  shall  be  so.     I'll  give  the  shaven  deal 

A  coat  of  paint — a  colourable  dress, 
To  look  like  calf  or  vellum,  and  conceal 
Its  nakedness. 

And  gilt  and  letter'd  with  the  author's  name, 

Whatever  is  most  excellent  and  rare 
Shall  be,  or  seem  to  be  ('tis  all  the  same), 
Assembled  there." 

The  work  was  done;  the  simulated  hoards 

Of  wit  and  wisdom  round  the  chamber  stood. 

In  bindings  some;  and  some,  of  course,  in  boards, 

Were  all  of  wood. 

From  bulky  folios  down  to  slender  twelves, 

The  choicest  tomes  in  many  an  even  row, 
Display'd  their  letter'd  backs  upon  the  shelves, 
A  goodly  show. 

[81] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


With  such  a  stock,  which  seemingly  surpass'd 

The  best  collection  ever  iorm'd  in  Spain, 
What  wonder  if  the  owner  grew  at  last 
Supremely  vain? 

What  wonder,  as  he  paced  from  shelf  to  shelf, 

And  conn'd  their  titles,  that  the  Squire  began, 
Despite  his  ignorance,  to  think  himself 
A  learned  man? 

Let  every  amateur,  who  merely  looks 

To  backs  and  bindings,  take  the  hint,  and  sell 
His  costly  library;  for  painted  books 
Would  serve  as  well. 

Tomas  Ynarte. 

THE  EGGS 

BEYOND  the  sunny  Philippines 
An  island  lies,  whose  name  I  do  not  know; 
But  that's  of  little  consequence,  if  so 
You  understand  that  there  they  had  no  hens, 
Till,  by  a  happy  chance,  a  traveller, 
After  a  while,  carried  some  poultry  there. 
Fast  they  increased  as  anyone  could  wish, 
Until  fresh  eggs  became  the  common  dish. 
But  all  the  natives  ate  them  boiled,  they  say, 
Because  the  stranger  taught  no  other  way. 
At  last  th'  experiment  by  one  was  tried — 
Sagacious  man! — of  having  his  eggs  fried. 
And  oh,  what  boundless  honours,  for  his  pains, 
His  fruitful  and  inventive  fancy  gains! 
[82] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Another,  now,  to  have  them  baked  devised — 
Most  happy  thought!  and  still  another,  spiced. 
Who  ever  thought  eggs  were  so  delicate! 
Next,  someone  gave  his  friends  an  omelette: 
"Ah!"  all  exclaimed,  "what  an  ingenious  feat!" 
But  scarce  a  year  went  by,  an  artist  shouts, 
"I  have  it  now.'ye're  all  a  pack  of  louts! 
With  nice  tomatoes  all  my  eggs  are  stewed." 
And  the  whole  island  thought  the  mode  so  good, 
That  they  would  so  have  cooked  them  to  this  day, 
But  that  a  stranger,  wandering  out  that  way, 
Another  dish  the  gaping  natives  taught, 
And  showed  them  eggs  cooked  a  la  Huguenot. 

Successive  cooks  thus  proved  their  skill  diverse, 

But  how  shall  I  be  able  to  rehearse 

All  of  the  new,  delicious  condiments 

That  luxury  from  time  to  time  invents  ? 

Soft,  hard,  and  dropped;  and  now  with  sugar  sweet, 

And  now  boiled  up  with  milk,  the  eggs  they  eat; 

In  sherbet,  in  preserves;  at  last  they  tickle 

Their  palates  fanciful  with  eggs  in  pickle. 

All  had  their  day — the  last  was  still  the  best. 

But  a  grave  senior  thus  one  day  addressed 

The  epicures:  "Boast,  ninnies,  if  you  will, 

These  countless  prodigies  of  gastric  skill, 

But  blessings  on  the  man  who  brought  the  hens!" 

Beyond  the  sunny  Philippines 

Our  crowd  of  modern  authors  need  not  go 

New-fangled  modes  of  cooking  eggs  to  show. 

Tomas  Tnarte. 

[83] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


THE  LITERARY  LADY 

WHAT  motley  cares  Gorilla's  mind  perplex, 
Whom  maids  and  metaphors  conspire  to 

vex! 

In  studious  dishabille  behold  her  sit, 
A  letter'd  gossip  and  a  household  wit: 
At  once  invoking,  though  for  different  views, 
Her  gods,  her  cook,  her  milliner,  and  muse. 
Round  her  strew'd  room  a  frippery  chaos  lies, 
A  checker'd  wreck  of  notable  and  wise, 
Bills,  books,  caps,  couplets,  combs,  a  varied  mass, 
Oppress  the  toilet  and  obscure  the  glass; 
Unfinished  here  an  epigram  is  laid, 
And  there  a  mantua-maker's  bill  unpaid. 
There  new-born  plays  foretaste  the  town's  applause, 
There  dormant  patterns  pine  for  future  gauze. 
A  moral  essay  now  is  all  her  care, 
A  satire  next,  and  then  a  bill  of  fare. 
A  scene  she  now  projects,  and  now  a  dish; 
Here  Act  the  First,  and  here  Remove  with  Fish. 
Now,  while  this  eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolls, 
That  soberly  casts  up  a  bill  for  coals; 
Black  pins  and  daggers  in  one  leaf  she  sticks, 
And  tears,  and  threads,  and  bowls,  and  thimbles 
mix. 

Richard  Brlnsley  Sheridan. 


A    S  at  ire   Anthology 


SLY  LAWYERS 

LO,  that  small  office!  there  th'  incautious  guest 
Goes  blindfold  in,  and  that  maintains  the  rest; 
There  in  his  web  th'  observant  spider  lies, 
And  peers  about  for  fat,  intruding  flies; 
Doubtful  at  first,  he  hears  the  distant  hum, 
And  feels  them  flutt'ring  as  they  nearer  come; 
They  buzz  and  blink,  and  doubtfully  they  tread 
On  the  strong  birdlime  of  the  utmost  thread; 
But  when  they're  once  entangled  by  the  gin, 
With  what  an  eager  clasp  he  draws  them  in! 
Nor  shall  they  'scape  till  after  long  delay, 
And  all  that  sweetens  life  is  drawn  away. 

George  Crabbe. 

REPORTERS 

FIRST,  from  each  brother's  hoard  a  part  they 
draw, 

A  mutual  theft  that  never  feared  a  law; 
Whate'er  they  gain,  to  each  man's  portion  fall, 
And  read  it  once,  you  read  it  through  them  all. 
For  this  their  runners  ramble  day  and  night, 
To  drag  each  lurking  deep  to  open  light; 
For  daily  bread  the  dirty  trade  they  ply, 
Coin  their  fresh  tales,  and  live  upon  the  lie. 
Like  bees  for  honey,  forth  for  news  they  spring — 
Industrious  creatures!  ever  on  the  wing; 
Home  to  their  several  cells  they  bear  the  store, 
Culled  of  all  kinds,  then  roam  abroad  for  more. 

George  Crabbe. 
[85] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID,  OR  THE 
RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS 

OH,  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel', 
Sae  pious  an'  sae  holy, 
Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  an'  tell 
Your  neibour's  fauts  an'  folly! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water, 

The  heaped  happer's  ebbing  still, 

An'  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door, 

For  glaiket  Folly's  portals: 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Would  here  propone  defences, 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  an'  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compar'd, 

An'  shudder  at  the  niffer, 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  mak's  the  mighty  differ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
An'  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 
Gi'es  now  an'  then  a  wallop, 
[86] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gallop. 
Wi'  wind  an'  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  lee-way. 

See  social  life  an'  glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  an'  unthinking, 
Till,  quite  transmugrified,  they're  grown 

Debauchery  an'  drinking: 
Oh,  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences; 
Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state, 

Damnation  of  expenses! 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  ye  gi'e  poor  frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases; 
A  dear  loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug, 

Ye're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human. 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it; 
An'  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far,  perhaps,  they  rue  it 

[87] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us; 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring — its  various  bias; 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute — 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 

Robert  Burns. 


HOLY  WILLIE'S  PRAYER 

OTHOU,    wha    in    the    heavens    dost 
dwell, 

Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  Thysel, 
Sends  ane  to  heaven  an'  ten  to  hell, 

A'  for  Thy  glory, 
And  no  for  ony  guid  or  ill 

They've  done  before  Thee ! 

I  bless  and  praise  Thy  matchless  might, 
When  thousands  Thou  hast  left  in  night, 
That  I  am  here,  before  Thy  sight, 

For  gifts  an'  grace, 
A  burnin'  an'  a  shinin'  light 

To  a'  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 
That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation! 

[88] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


I,  wha  deserv'd  most  just  damnation, 

For  broken  laws 
Sax  thousand  years  ere  my  creation, 

Thro'  Adam's  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  hae  plung'd  me  deep  in  hell, 
To  gnash  my  gooms,  to  weep  and  wail 

In  burnin'  lakes, 
Whare  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain'd  to  their  stakes. 

Yet  I  am  here,  a  chosen  sample, 

To  show  Thy  grace  is  great  and  ample; 

I'm  here  a  pillar  o'  Thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example 

To  a'  Thy  flock! 

But  yet,  O  Lord!  confess  I  must, 
At  times  I'm  fash'd  wi'  fleshly  lust; 
An'  sometimes,  too,  wi'  warldly  trust, 

Vile  self  gets  in; 
But  Thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defil'd  wi'  sin. 

May  be  Thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 

Beset  Thy  servant  e'en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  proud  and  high  should  turn 

That  he's  sae  gifted: 
If  sae,  Thy  han'  maun  e'en  be  borne 

Until  Thou  lift  it. 

[89] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Lord,  bless  Thy  chosen  in  this  place, 
For  here  Thou  hast  a  chosen  race: 
But  God  confound  their  stubborn  face, 

An'  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  Thy  elders  to  disgrace 

An'  open  shame! 

Lord,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton's  deserts; 
He  drinks,  an'  swears,  an'  plays  at  carts, 
Yet  has  sae  mony  takin'  arts, 

Wi'  great  and  sma', 
Frae  God's  ain  priests  the  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa. 

An'  when  we  chasten'd  him  therefor, 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore, 
As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

O'  laughin'  at  us; 
Curse  Thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  an'  potatoes! 

Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  pray'r 

Against  the  Presbyt'ry  of  Ayr! 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  Lord,  mak  it  bare 

Upo'  their  heads! 
Lord,  visit  them,  an'  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds! 

O  Lord,  my  God!  that  glib-tongu'd  Aiken, 
My  vera  heart  and  saul  are  quakin', 
To  think  how  we  stood  sweatin',  shakin', 
An'  pish'd  wi'  dread, 

[90] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


While  he  wi'  hingin'  lip  an'  snakin', 
Held  up  his  head. 

Lord,  in  Thy  day  o'  vengeance  try  him! 
Lord,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 
And  pass  not  in  Thy  mercy  by  them, 

Nor  hear  their  pray'r; 
But  for  Thy  people's  sake  destroy  them. 

An'  dinna  spare! 

But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine, 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine, 
That  I  for  grace  and  gear  may  shine, 

Excell'd  by  nane, 
An'  a'  the  glory  shall  be  Thine, 

Amen,  Amen! 

Robert  Burns. 


KITTY  OF  COLERAINE 

AS  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping, 
With   a   pitcher  of  milk  from   the   fair  of 

Coleraine, 
When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  down 

tumbled, 

And  all  the  sweet  buttermilk  watered  the  plain. 
"Oh,  what  shall  I  do  now?  'twas  looking  at  you, 

now! 

Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I'll  ne'er  meet  again; 
'Twas  the  pride  of  my  dairy!    O  Barney  M'Cleary, 
You're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine!" 

[91] 


A    S atir e    Anthology 


I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her 

That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain; 
A  kiss  then  I  gave  her,  and,  ere  I  did  leave  her, 

She  vowed  for  such  pleasure  she'd  break  it  again. 
'Twas  hay-making  season — I  can't  tell  the  reason — 

Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  'tis  plain; 
For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 

The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 

Edward  Lysaght. 


THE   FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE 
KNIFE-GRINDER 

FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY 

"IV  TEEDY  Knife-grinder,  whither  are  you  going  ? 
I  \      Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of 

order; 

Bleak  blows  the  blast;  your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in't, 
So  have  your  breeches! 

"Weary  Knife-grinder,  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike 
Road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day, '  Knives 
and 

Scissors  to  grind  OP 

"Tell  me,  Knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind 
•       knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you? 

[92] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

'Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 

Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining? 

Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 

All  in  a  lawsuit? 

'  (Have  you  not  read  the  'Rights  of  Man,'  by  Tom 

Paine  ?) 

Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story." 


KNIFE-GRINDER 

"Story!     God  bless  you!     I  have  none  to  tell,  sir, 
Only  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

"Constables  came  up,  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody;  they  took  me  before  the  justice; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 
Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  Honour's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir." 

[93] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY 

"  I  give  thee  sixpence !  I  will  see  thee  damned  first — 
Wretch!  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to 

vengeance — 

Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 
Spiritless  outcast!" 

(Kicks  the  Knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel, 
and  exit  in  a  trans  port  ^of  Republican  enthusiasm 
and  universal  philanthropy.} 

George  Canning. 

NORA'S  VOW  " 

HEAR  what  Highland  Nora  said: 
"The  Earlie's  son  I  will  not  wed, 
Should  all  the  race  of  Nature  die, 
And  none  be  left  but  he  and  I. 
For  all  the  gold,  for  all  the  gear, 
And  all  the  lands  both  far  and  near, 
That  ever  valour  lost  and  won, 
I  would  not  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 

"A  maiden's  vows,"  old  Callum  spoke, 
"Are  lightly  made  and  lightly  broke. 
The  heather  on  the  mountain's  height 
Begins  to  bloom  in  purple  light; 
The  frost-wind  soon  shall  sweep  away 
That  lustre  deep  from  glen  and  brae; 
Yet  Nora,  ere  its  bloom  be  gone, 
May  blithely  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 

[94] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"The  swan,"  she  said,  "the  lake's  clear  breast 
May  barter  for  the  eagle's  nest; 
The  Awe's  fierce  stream  may  backward  turn, 
Ben  Cruaichan  fall,  and  crush  Kilchurn; 
Our  kilted  clans,  when  blood  is  high, 
Before  their  foes  may  turn  and  fly; 
But  I,  were  all  these  marvels  done, 
Would  never  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 

Still  in  the  water-lily's  shade 

Her  wonted  nest  the  wild  swan  made, 

Ben  Cruaichan  stands  as  fast  as  ever, 

Still  downward  foams  the  Awe's  fierce  river; 

To  shun  the  clash  of  foeman's  steel, 

No  Highland  brogue  has  turn'd  the  heel; 

But  Nora's  heart  is  lost  and  won — 

She's  wedded  to  the  Earlie's  son! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


JOB 

SLY  Beelzebub  took  all  occasions 
To  try  Job's  constancy  and  patience. 
He  took  his  honour,  took  his  health; 
He  took  his  children,  took  his  wealth, 
His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows — 
But  cunning  Satan  did  not  take  his  spouse. 

But  Heaven,  that  brings  out  good  from  evil, 
And  loves  to  disappoint  the  devil, 

[95] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Had  predetermined  to  restore 

Twofold  all  he  had  before; 

His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows — 

Short-sighted  devil,  not  to  take  his  spouse! 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 


COLOGNE 

IN  Koln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones, 
And  pavements  fanged  with  murderous  stones, 
And  rags,  and  hags,  and  hideous  wenches, 
I  counted  two-and-seventy  stenches, 
All  well  defined,  and  separate  stinks! 
Ye  nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks, 
The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 
Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne; 
But  tell  me,  nymphs,  what  power  divine 
Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine? 

Samuel  T .  Coleridge. 


"W 


GILES'  HOPE 

HAT!  rise  again  with  all  one's  bones?" 

Quoth  Giles.     "I  hope  you  fib. 
I  trusted,  when  I  went  to  heaven, 
To  go  without  my  rib." 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 

[96] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 

IT  was  a  summer's  evening; 
Old  Casper's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage-door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

That  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found. 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Casper  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"I  find  them  in  the  garden,  for 

There's  many  here  about; 
And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"Were  slain  in  the  great  victory." 

[97] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up, 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes: 
"Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for." 

"It  was  the  English,"  Casper  cried, 
"That  put  the  French  to  rout; 

But  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out; 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

"That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

"My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  new-born  infant  died. 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight, 
After  the  field  was  won, 

[98] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


For  many  a  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun. 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won, 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing!" 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"It  was  a  famous  victory; 

"And  everybody  praised  the  duke, 

Who  such  a  fight  did  win." 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he; 
"But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 

Robert  Southey. 

THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE 

A  WELL  there  is  in  the  west  country, 
And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen; 
There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside, 
And  behind  doth  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 

[99] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  traveller  came  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he; 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by, 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail; 
On  the  well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

"Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger?"  quoth  he, 

"For  an'  if  thou  has  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

"Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast, 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 
For  an'  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life 

She  has  drank  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  stranger  he  made  reply; 
"But  that  my  draught  should  be  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why?" 

"St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornishman,  "many  a  time 
Drank  of  this  crystal  well, 

L 


A   Satire   Anthology 


And  before  the  angels  summon'd  her, 
She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"If  the  husband  of  this  gifted  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 
A  happy  man  henceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

"But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first, 

God  help  the  husband  then!" 
The  stranger  stooped  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 

"You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  betimes?" 

He  to  the  Cornishman  said; 
But  the  Cornishman  smiled  as  the  stranger  spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

"I  hasten'd  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch; 
But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 

Robert  Southey. 

THE  POET  OF  FASHION 

HIS  book  is  successful,  he's  steeped  in  renown, 
His  lyric  effusions  have  tickled  the  town; 
Dukes,  dowagers,  dandies,  are  eager  to  trace 
The  fountain  of  verse  in  the  verse-maker's  face; 
While,  proud  as  Apollo,  with  peers  tete-a-tete, 
From  Monday  till  Saturday  dining  off  plate, 
[101] 


'A   Satire   Anthology 


His  heart  full  of  hope,  and  his  head  full  of  gain, 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Park  Lane. 


Now  lean-jointured  widows  who  seldom  draw  corks, 
Whose  teaspoons  do  duty  for  knives  and  for  forks, 
Send  forth,  vellum-covered,  a  six-o'clock  card, 
And  get  up  a  dinner  to  peep  at  the  bard; 
Veal,    sweetbread,    boiled    chickens,    and    tongue 

crown  the  cloth, 

And  soup  a  la  reine,  little  better  than  broth. 
While,  past  his  meridian,  but  still  with  some  heat, 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Sloane  Street. 

Enrolled  in  the  tribe  who  subsist  by  their  wits, 
Remember'd  by  starts,  and  forgotten  by  fits, 
Now  artists  and  actors,  the  bardling  engage, 
To  squib  in  the  journals,  and  write  for  the  stage. 
Now  soup  a  la  reine  bends  the  knee  to  ox-cheek, 
And  chickens  and  tongue  bow  to  bubble  and  squeak. 
While,  still  in  translation  employ'd  by  "the  Row," 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Soho. 

Pushed  down  from  Parnassus  to  Phlegethon's  brink, 
Toss'd,  torn,  and  trunk-lining,  but  still  with  some 

ink, 

Now  squat  city  misses  their  albums  expand, 
And  woo  the  worn   rhymer  for  "something  off- 
hand"; 

No  longer  with  stinted  effrontery  fraught, 
Bucklersbury   now   seeks  what   St.    James'     once 
sought, 

[   102] 


A    $  a  tir  e   Anthology 


And  (oh,  what  a  classical  haunt  for  a  bard!) 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Barge-yard. 

"James  Smith. 

CHRISTMAS  OUT  OF  TOWN 

FR  many  a  winter  in  Billiter  Lane, 
My  wife,  Mrs.  Brown,  was  not  heard  to  com- 
plain; 

At  Christmas  the  family  met  there  to  dine 
On  beef  and  plum-pudding,  and  turkey  and  chine. 
Our  bark  has  now  taken  a  contrary  heel; 
My  wife  has  found  out  that  the  sea  is  genteel. 
To  Brighton  we  duly  go  scampering  down, 
For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  town. 

Our  register-stoves,  and  our  crimson-baized  doors, 
Our  weather-proof  walls,  and  our  carpeted  floors, 
Our  casements  well  fitted  to  stem  the  north  wind, 
Our  arm-chair  and  sofa,  are  all  left  behind. 
We  lodge  on  the  Steyne,  in  a  bow-window'd  box, 
That  beckons  up-stairs  every  Zephyr  that  knocks; 
The  sun  hides  his  head,  and  the  elements  frown, 
But  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  town. 

In  Billiter  Lane,  at  this  mirth-moving  time, 
The  lamp-lighter  brought  us  his  annual  rhyme; 
The  tricks  of  Grimaldi  were  sure  to  be  seen; 
We  carved  a  twelfth-cake,  and  we  drew  king  and 

queen. 

These  pastimes  gave  oiltoTime'sround-aboutwheel, 
Before  we  began  to  be  growing  genteel; 

[  I03  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


'Twas  all  very  well  for  a  cockney  or  clown, 
But  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  town. 

At  Brighton  I'm  stuck  up  in  Donaldson's  shop, 
Or  walk  upon  bricks  till  I'm  ready  to  drop; 
Throw  stones  at  an  anchor,  look  out  for  a  skiff, 
Or  view  the  Chain-pier  from  the  top  of  the  cliff: 
Till  winds  from  all  quarters  oblige  me  to  halt, 
With  an  eye  full  of  sand  and  a  mouth  full  of  salt, 
Yet  still  I  am  suffering  with  folks  of  renown, 
For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  town. 

In  gallop  the  winds  at  the  full  of  the  moon, 
And  puff  up  the  carpet  like  Sadler's  balloon; 
My  drawing-room  rug  is  besprinkled  with  soot, 
And  there  is  not  a  lock  in  the  house  that  will  shut. 
At  Mahomet's  steam-bath  I  lean  on  my  cane, 
And  murmur  in  secret,  "Oh,  Billiter  Lane!" 
But  would  not  express  what  I  think  for  a  crown, 
For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  town. 

The  Duke  and  the  Earl  are  no  cronies  of  mine; 

His  Majesty  never  invites  me  to  dine; 

The  Marquis  won't  speak  when  we  meet  on  the 

pier, 

Which  makes  me  suspect  that  I'm  nobody  here. 
If  that  be  the  case,  why,  then  welcome  again 
Twelfth-cake  and  snap-dragon  in  Billiter  Lane. 
Next  winter  I'll  prove  to  my  dear  Mrs.  Brown 
That  Nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  town. 

"James  Smith. 
[I04] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


ETERNAL  LONDON 

AND  is  there,  then,  no  earthly  place 
Where  we  can  rest  in  dream  Elysian, 
Without  some  cursed  round  English  face 
Popping  up  near  to  break  the  vision  ? 

'Mid  northern  lakes,  'mid  southern  vines, 
Unholy  cits  we're  doomed  to  meet; 

Nor  highest  Alps,  nor  Apennines, 

Are  sacred  from  Threadneedle  Street. 

If  up  the  Simplon's  path  we  wind, 
Fancying  we  leave  this  world  behind, 
Such  pleasant  sounds  salute  one's  ear 
As,  " Baddish  news  from  'Change,  my  dear: 
The  Funds  (phew!  curse  this  ugly  hill!) 
Are  lowering  fast  (what!    higher  still?) 
And  (zooks!  we're  mounting  up  to  heaven!) 
Will  soon  be  down  to  sixty-seven." 
Go  where  we  may,  rest  where  we  will, 
Eternal  London  haunts  us  still. 
The  trash  of  Almack's  or  Fleet-Ditch — 
And  scarce  a  pin's-head  difference  which — 
Mixes,  though  even  to  Greece  we  run, 
With  every  rill  from  Helicon. 
And  if  this  rage  for  travelling  lasts, 
If  cockneys  of  all  sets  and  castes, 
Old  maidens,  aldermen,  and  squires, 
Will  leave  their  puddings  and  coal  fires, 


A    Satire   Anthology 


To  gape  at  things  in  foreign  lands 
No  soul  among  them  understands; 
If  Blues  desert  their  coteries, 
To  show  off  'mong  the  Wahabees; 
If  neither  sex  nor  age  controls, 

Nor  fear  of  Mamelukes  forbids 
Young  ladies,  with  pink  parasols, 

To  glide  among  the  Pyramids: 
Why,  then,  farewell  all  hope  to  find 
A  spot  that's  free  from  London-kind! 
Who  knows,  if  to  the  West  we  roam, 
But  we  may  find  some  Blue  "at  home" 

Among  the  Blacks  of  Carolina, 
Or,  flying  to  the  eastward,  see, 
Some  MRS.  HOPKINS  taking  tea 

And  toast  upon  the  Wall  of  China  ? 

Thomas  Moore. 

THE  MODERN  PUFFING  SYSTEM 

UNLIKE  those  feeble  gales  of  praise 
Which  critics  blew  in  former  days, 
Our  modern  puffs  are  of  a  kind 
That  truly,  really  "raise  the  wind"; 
And  since  they've  fairly  set  in  blowing, 
We  find  them  the  best  trade-winds  going. 
What  storm  is  on  the  deep — and  more 
Is  the  great  power  of  Puff"  on  shore, 
Which  jumps  to  glory's  future  tenses 
Before  the  present  even  commences, 
And  makes  "immortal"  and  "divine"  of  us, 
Before  the  world  has  read  one  line  of  us. 

[106] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


In  old  times,  when  the  god  of  song 
Drew  his  own  two-horse  team  along, 
Carrying  inside  a  bard  or  two 
Booked  for  posterity  "all  through," 
Their  luggage  a  few  close-packed  rhymes 
(Like  yours,  my  friend,  for  after-times), 
So  slow  the  pull  to  Fame's  abode 
That  folks  oft  slumbered  on  the  road; 
And  Homer's  self  sometimes,  they  say, 
Took  to  his  nightcap  on  the  way. 
But  now,  how  different  is  the  story 
With  our  new  galloping  sons  of  glory, 
Who,  scorning  all  such  slack  and  slow  time, 
Dash  to  posterity  in  no  time! 
Raise  but  one  general  blast  of  puff 
To  start  your  author — that's  enough: 
In  vain  the  critics  sit  to  watch  him, 
Try  at  the  starting-post  to  catch  him; 
He's  off — the  puffers  carry  it  hollow — 
The  critics,  if  they  please,  may  follow; 
Ere  they've  laid  down  their  first  positions, 
He's  fairly  blown  through  six  editions! 
In  vain  doth  Edinburgh  dispense 
Her  blue  and  yellow  pestilence 
(That  plague  so  awful  in  my  time 
To  young  and  touchy  sons  of  rhyme); 
The  Quarterly,  at  three  months'  date, 
To  catch  the  Unread  One  comes  too  late; 
And  nonsense,  littered  in  a  hurry, 
Becomes  "immortal"  spite  of  Murray. 

Thomas  Moore. 

[  I07] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


LYING 

I  do  confess,  in  many  a  sigh, 
My  lips  have  breath'd  you  many  a  lie, 
And  who,  with  such  delights  in  view, 
Would  lose  them  for  a  lie  or  two  ? 
Nay — look  not  thus,  with  brow  reproving: 
Lies  are,  my  dear,  the  soul  of  loving! 
If  half  we  tell  the  girls  were  true, 
If  half  we  swear  to  think  and  do, 
Were  aught  but  lying's  bright  illusion, 
The  world  would  be  in  strange  confusion! 
If  ladies'  eyes  were,  every  one, 
As  lovers  swear,  a  radiant  sun, 
Astronomy  should  leave  the  skies, 
To  learn  her  lore  in  ladies'  eyes! 
Oh  no! — believe  me,  lovely  girl, 
When  nature  turns  your  teeth  to  pearl, 
Your  neck  to  snow,  your  eyes  to  fire, 
Your  yellow  locks  to  golden  wire, 
Then,  only  then,  can  heaven  decree, 
That  you  should  live  for  only  me, 
Or  I  for  you,  as  night  and  morn, 
We've  swearing  kiss'd,  and  kissing  sworn. 

And  now,  my  gentle  hints  to  clear, 
For  once,  I'll  tell  you  truth,  my  dear! 
Whenever  you  may  chance  to  meet 
A  loving  youth,  whose  love  is  sweet, 
Long  as  you're  false  and  he  believes  you, 
Long  as  you  trust  and  he  deceives  you, 
So  long  the  blissful  bond  endures  ; 

[108] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  while  he  lies,  his  heart  is  yours. 
But,  oh!  you've  wholly  lost  the  youth 
The  instant  that  he  tells  you  truth! 

Thomas  Moore. 

THE  KING  OF  YVETOT* 

r  I  AHERE  was  a  king  of  Yvetot, 

Of  whom  renown  hath  little  said, 
Who  let  all  thoughts  of  glory  go, 
And  dawdled  half  his  days  abed; 
And  every  night,  as  night  came  round, 
By  Jenny  with  a  nightcap  crowned, 

Slept  very  sound: 
Sing  ho,  ho,  ho!  and  he,  he,  he! 
That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

And  every  day  it  came  to  pass 

That  four  lusty  meals  made  he; 
And  step  by  step,  upon  an  ass, 

Rode  abroad,  his  realms  to  see; 
And  wherever  he  did  stir, 
What  think  you  was  his  escort,  sir? 
Why,  an  old  cur. 

Sing  ho,  ho,  ho!  and  he,  he,  he! 

That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

If  e'er  he  went  into  excess, 

'Twas  from  a  somewhat  lively  thirst; 
But  he  who  would  his  subjects  bless, 

Odd's  fish!  must  wet  his  whistle  first; 

*  Version  of  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

L  I09] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  so,  from  every  cask  they  got, 
Our  king  did  to  himself  allot 
At  least  a  pot. 

Sing  ho,  ho,  ho!  and  he,  he,  he! 

That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

To  all  the  ladies  of  the  land 

A  courteous  king,  and  kind,  was  he; 
The  reason  why,  you'll  understand — 

They  named  him  Pater  Patriae. 
Each  year  he  called  his  fighting  men, 
And  marched  a  league  from  home,  and  then. 
Marched  back  again. 

Sing  ho,  ho,  ho!  and  he,  he,  he! 

That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

Neither  by  force  nor  false  pretence, 

He  sought  to  make  his  kingdom  great, 
And  made  (O  princes,  learn  from  hence) 

"Live  and  let  live"  his  rule  of  state. 
'Twas  only  when  he  came  to  die, 
That  his  people  who  stood  by 
Were  known  to  cry. 

Sing  ho,  ho,  ho!  and  he,  he,  he! 

That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

The  portrait  of  this  best  of  kings 

Is  extant  still,  upon  a  sign 
That  on  a  village  tavern  swings, 

Famed  in  the  country  for  good  wine. 

[HO] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  people  in  their  Sunday  trim, 
Filling  their  glasses  to  the  brim, 

Look  up  to  him, 

Singing,  "Ha,  ha,  ha!"  and  "He,  he,  he! 
That's  the  sort  of  king  for  me." 

Pierre  Jean  De  Beranger. 


SYMPATHY 

A    KNIGHT  and  a  lady  once  met  in  a  grove, 
AA       While    each    was   in   quest    of  a   fugitive 

love. 

A  river  ran  mournfully  murmuring  by, 
And  they  wept  in  its  waters  for  sympathy. 

"Oh,  never  was  knight  such  a  sorrow  that  bore!" 
"Oh,  never  was  maid  so  deserted  before!" 
"From  life  and  its  woes  let  us  instantly  fly, 
And  jump  in  together  for  company!" 

They  search'd  for  an  eddy  that  suited  the  deed, 
But  here  was  a  bramble,  and  there  was  a  weed. 
"How  tiresome  it  is!"  said  the  fair,  with  a  sigh; 
So  they  sat  down  to  rest  them  in  company. 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  the  maid  and  the  knight; 
How  fair  was  her  form,  and  how  goodly  his  height! 
"One  mournful  embrace,"  sobb'd  the  youth,  "ere 

we  die!" 

So  kissing  and  crying  kept  company. 
[Ill] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


"Oh,  had  I  but  loved  such  an  angel  as  you!" 
"Oh,  had  but  my  swain  been  a  quarter  as  true!" 
"To  miss  such  perfection,  how  blinded  was  I!" 
Sure  now  they  were  excellent  company. 

At  length  spoke  the  lass,  'twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
"The  weather  is  cold  for  a  watery  bier; 
When  summer  returns  we  may  easily  die, 
Till  then  let  us  sorrow  in  company." 

Reginald  Heber. 

A  MODEST  WIT 

A    SUPERCILIOUS  nabob  of  the  East- 
J-\      Haughty,   being  great — purse-proud,  being 

rich — 
A  governor,  or  general,  at  the  least, 

I  have  forgotten  which — 
Had  in  his  family  a  humble  youth, 

Who  went  from  England  in  his  patron's  suite, 
An  unassuming  boy,  in  truth 

A  lad  of  decent  parts,  and  good  repute, 
This  youth  had  sense  and  spirit; 

But  yet  with  all  his  sense, 

Excessive  diffidence 
Obscured  his  merit. 

One  day,  at  table,  flushed  with  pride  and  wine, 
His  honour,  proudly  free,  severely  merry, 

Conceived  it  would  be  vastly  fine 
To  crack  a  joke  upon  his  secretary. 
[112] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


"Young  man,"  he  said,  "  by  what  art,  craft,  or  trade 
Did  your  good  father  gain  a  livelihood?" 

"He  was  a  saddler,  sir,"  Modestus  said, 
"And  in  his  time  was  reckoned  good." 

"A  saddler,  eh?  and  taught  you  Greek, 

Instead  of  teaching  you  to  sew! 
Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 

A  saddler,  sir,  of  you?" 

Each  parasite,  then,  as  in  duty  bound, 

The  joke  applauded,  and  the  laugh  went  round. 

At  length  Modestus,  bowing  low, 
Said  (craving  pardon,  if  too  free  he  made), 

"Sir,  by  your  leave,  I  fain  would  know 
Your  father's  trade!" 


"My  father's  trade!  by  Heaven,  that's  too  bad! 
My  father's  trade  ?     Why,  blockhead,  are  you  mad  ? 
My  father,  sir,  did  never  stoop  so  low — 
He  was  a  gentleman,  I'd  have  you  know." 


'Excuse  the  liberty  I  take," 

Modestus  said,  with  archness  on  his  brow, 
( Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 

A  gentleman  of  you  ?" 

Selleck  O shorn. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  SCALES 

A  MONK,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o'er, 
In  the  depth  of  his  cell  with    its    stone- 
covered  floor, 

Resigning  to  thought  his  chimerical  brain, 
Once  formed  the  contrivance  we  now  shall  explain; 
But  whether  by  magic's  or  alchemy's  powers 
We  know  not;  indeed,  'tis  no  business  of  ours. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  by  patience  and  care, 
At  last,  that  he  brought  his  invention  to  bear. 
In  youth  'twas  projected,  but  years  stole  away, 
And  ere  'twas  complete  he  was  wrinkled  and  gray; 
But  success  is  secure,  unless  energy  fails, 
And  at  length  he  produced  THE  PHILOSOPHER'S 
SCALES. 

"What  were  they?"  you  ask.    You  shall  presently 

see. 

These  scales  were  not  made  to  weigh  sugar  and  tea. 
Oh,  no;  for  such  properties  wondrous  had  they, 
That  qualities,  feelings,  and  thoughts  they  could 

weigh, 

Together  with  articles  small  or  immense, 
From  mountains  or  planets  to  atoms  of  sense. 

Naught  was  there  so  bulky  but  there  it  would  lay, 
And  naught  so  ethereal  but  there  it  would  stay, 
And  naught  so  reluctant  but  in  it  must  go: 
All  which  some  examples  more  clearly  will  show. 


A   Satire   Anthology 


The  first  thing  he  weighed  was  the  head  of  Voltaire, 
Which  retained  all  the  wit  that  had  ever  been  there. 
As  a  weight,  he  threw  in  a  torn  scrap  of  a  leaf 
Containing  the  prayer  of  the  penitent  thief; 
When  the  skull  rose  aloft  with  so  sudden  a  spell, 
That  it  bounced  like  a  ball  on  the  roof  of  the  cell. 

One  time  he  put  in  Alexander  the  Great, 

With  the  garment  that  Dorcas  had  made,  for  a 

weight; 

And  though  clad  in  armour  from  sandals  to  crown, 
The  hero  rose  up,  and  the  garment  went  down. 
A  long  row  of  almshouses,  amply  endowed 
By  a  well-esteemed  Pharisee,  busy  and  proud, 
Next  loaded  one  scale;  while  the  other  was  pressed 
By  those  mites  the  poor  widow  dropped  into  the 

chest : 

Up  flew  the  endowment,  not  weighing  an  ounce, 
And  down,  down  the  farthing-worth  came  with  a 

bounce. 

By  further  experiments  (no  matter  how) 

He  found  that  ten  chariots  weighed  less  than  one 

plough; 

A  sword  with  gilt  trapping  rose  up  in  the  scale, 
Though  balanced  by  only  a  tenpenny  nail; 
A  shield  and  a  helmet,  a  buckler  and  spear, 
Weighed  less  than  a  widow's  uncrystallized  tear. 

A  lord  and  a  lady  went  up  at  full  sail, 

When  a  bee  chanced  to  light  on  the  opposite  scale; 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Ten  doctors,  ten  lawyers,  two  courtiers,  one  earl, 
Ten  counsellors'  wigs,  full  of  powder  and  curl, 
All    heaped    in    one    balance    and    swinging   from 

thence, 

Weighed  less  than  a  few  grains  of  candor  and  sense; 
A  first-water  diamond,  with  brilliants  begirt, 
Than  one  good  potato  just  washed  from  the  dirt; 
Yet  not  mountains  of  silver  and  gold  could  suffice 
One  pearl  to  outweigh — 'twas  THE  PEARL  OF  GREAT 

PRICE. 

Last  of  all,  the  whole  world  was  bowled  in  at  the 

grate, 

With  the  soul  of  a  beggar  to  serve  for  a  weight, 
When  the  former  sprang  up  with  so  strong  a  rebuff 
That  it  made  a  vast  rent  and  escaped  at  the  roof! 
When  balanced  in  air,  it  ascended  on  high, 
And  sailed  up  aloft,  a  balloon  in  the  sky; 
While  the  scale  with  the  soul  in't  so  mightily  fell, 
That  it  jerked  the  philosopher  out  of  his  cell. 

"Jane  "Taylor. 


NEXT  came  Walter  Scott,  with  a  fine,  weighty 
face, 

For  as  soon  as  his  visage  was  seen  in  the 
place, 

The  diners  and  barmaids  all  crowded  to  know  him, 
And  thank  him  with  smiles  for  that  sweet,  pretty 


poem ! 


[116] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


However,  he  scarcely  had  got  through  the  door, 
When  he  looked  adoration,  and  bowed  to  the  floor, 
For  his  host  was  a  god — what  a  very  great  thing! 
And  what  was  still  greater  in  his  eyes — a  king! 
Apollo  smiled  shrewdly,  and  bade  him  sit  down, 
With,  "Well,  Mr.   Scott,  you  have  managed  the 

town; 

Now,  pray,  copy  less — have  a  little  temerity; 
Try  if  you  can't  also  manage  posterity. 
All  you  add  now  only  lessens  your  credit; 
And  how  could  you  think,  too,  of  taking  to  edit  ? 
A  great  deal's  endured  where  there's  measure  and 

rhyme, 

But  prose  such  as  yours  is  a  pure  waste  of  time — 
A  singer  of  ballads  unstrung  by  a  cough, 
Who  fairly  talks  on,  till  his  hearers  walk  off. 
Be  original,  man;  study  more,  scribble  less, 
Nor  mistake  present  favor  for  lasting  success; 
And    remember,   if  laurels    are  what   you  would 

find, 
The  crown  of  all  triumph  is  freedom  of  mind." 

Henry  Leigh  Hunt. 


RICH  AND  POOR;  OR,  SAINT  AND 
SINNER 

THE  poor  man's  sins  are  glaring; 
In  the  face  of  ghostly  warning, 

He  is  caught  in  the  fact 
Of  an  overt  act — 
Buying  greens  on  Sunday  morning. 

[117] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  rich  man's  sins  are  hidden 
In  the  pomp  of  wealth  and  station; 

And  escape  the  sight 

Of  the  children  of  light, 
Who  are  wise  in  their  generation. 

The  rich  man  has  a  kitchen, 
And  cooks  to  dress  his  dinner; 

The  poor,  who  would  roast, 

To  the  baker's  must  post, 
And  thus  becomes  a  sinner. 

The  rich  man  has  a  cellar, 
And  a  ready  butler  by  him; 

The  poor  must  steer 

For  his  pint  of  beer, 
Where  the  saint  can't  choose  but  spy  him. 

The  rich  man's  painted  windows 
Hide  the  concerts  of  the  quality; 

The  poor  can  but  share 

A  crack'd  fiddle  in  the  air, 
Which  offends  all  sound  morality. 

The  rich  man  is  invisible 
In  the  crowd  of  his  gay  society; 
But  the  poor  man's  delight 
Is  a  sore  in  the  sight, 
And  a  stench  in  the  nose  of  piety. 

Thomas  L.  Peacock. 
[118] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


MR.   BARNEY  MAGUIRE'S  ACCOUNT  OF 
THE  CORONATION 

OCH!  the  Coronation!  what  celebration 
For  emulation  can  with  it  compare  ? 
When  to  Westminster  the  Royal  Spinster 
And  the  Duke  of  Leinster,  all  in  order  did  repair! 
'Twas  there  you'd  see  the  new  Polishemen 

Make  a  scrimmage  at  half  after  four; 
And  the  Lords  and  Ladies,  and  the  Miss  O'Gradys, 
All  standing  round  before  the  Abbey  door. 

Their  pillows  scorning,  that  selfsame  morning 

Themselves  adorning,  all  by  the  candle-light, 
With  roses  and  lilies,  and  daffy-down-dillies, 

And  gould  and  jewels,  and  rich  di'monds  bright. 
And  then  approaches  five  hundred  coaches, 

With  Gineral  Dullbeak. — Och !  'twas  mighty  fine 
To  see  how  aisy  bould  Corporal  Casey, 

With  his  sword  drawn,  prancing,  made  them  kape 
the  line. 

Then  the  guns'  alarums,  and  the  King  of  Arums, 

All  in  his  Garters  and  his  Clarence  shoes, 
Opening  the  massy  doors  to  the  bould  Ambassydors, 

The  Prince  of  Potboys,  and  great  haythen  Jews; 
'Twould  have  made  you  crazy  to  see  Esterhazy 

All  jools  from  his  jasey  to  his  di'mond  boots; 
With  Alderman  Harmer,  and  that  swate  charmer, 

The  famal,e  heiress,  Miss  Anja-ly  Coutts. 


A    Satire    Anthology 


And  Wellington,  walking  with  his  swoord  drawn, 
talking 

To  Hill  and  Hardinge,  haroes  of  great  fame; 
And  Sir  De  Lacy,  and  the  Duke  Dalmasey 

(They  call'd  him  Sowlt  afore  he  changed  his 

name), 
Themselves  presading,  Lord  Melbourne  lading 

The  Queen,  the  darling,  to  her  royal  chair, 
And  that  fine  ould  fellow,  the  Duke  of  Pell-Mello, 

The  Queen  of  Portingal's  Chargy-de-fair. 

Then  the  noble  Prussians,  likewise  the  Russians, 

In  fine  laced  jackets  with  their  goulden  cuffs, 
And  the  Bavarians,  and  the  proud  Hungarians, 

And  Everythingarians  all  in  furs  and  muffs. 
Then    Misther    Spaker,    with    Misther    Pays    the 
Quaker, 

All  in  the  gallery  you  might  persave; 
But  Lord   Brougham  was   missing,   and   gone   a- 
fishing, 

Ounly  crass  Lord  Essex  would  not  give  him  lave. 

There  was  Baron  Alten  himself  exalting, 

And    Prince    Von    Schwartzenburg,    and    many 

more; 
Och!  I'd  be  bother'd,  and  entirely  smother'd, 

To  tell  the  half  of  'em  was  to  the  fore; 
With   the   swate   Peeresses,    in    their   crowns   and 

dresses, 

And  Aldermanesses,  and  the  Boord  of  Works; 
But  Mehemet  Ali  said,  quite  gintalely, 

"I'd  be  proud  to  see  the  likes  among  the  Turks!" 
[   120] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Then  the  Queen — Heaven  bless  her! — och!    they 
did  dress  her 

In  her  purple  garments  and  her  goulden  crown, 
Like  Venus,  or  Hebe,  or  the  Queen  of  Sheby, 

With  eight  young  ladies  houlding  up  her  gown. 
Sure  'twas  grand  to  see  her,  also  for  to  he-ar 

The  big  drums  bating  and  the  trumpets  blow; 
And  Sir  George  Smart,  oh!  he  played  a  consarto, 

With  his  four-and-twenty  fiddlers  all  on  a  row! 

Then  the  Lord  Archbishop  held  a  goulden  dish  up 

For  to  resave  her  bounty  and  great  wealth, 
Saying,  "Plase  your  Glory,  great  Queen  Vic-tory! 

Ye'll  give  the  Clargy  lave  to  dhrink  your  health!" 
Then  his  Riverence,  retrating,  discoorsed  the  mat- 
ing: 

"Boys,  here's  your  Queen!  deny  it  if  you  can! 
And  if  any  bould  traitor,  or  infarior  craythur, 

Sneezes  at  that,  I'd  like  to  see  the  man!" 

Then  the  Nobles  kneeling,  to  the  Pow'rs  appealing — 

"Heaven  send  your  Majesty  a  glorious  reign!" 
And  Sir  Claudius  Hunter,  he  did  confront  her, 

All  in  his  scarlet  gown  and  goulden  chain. 
The  great  Lord  May'r,  too,  sat  in  his  chair,  too, 

But  mighty  sarious,  looking  fit  to  cry, 
For  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  all  in  his  hurry, 

Throwing  the  thirteens,  hit  him  in  his  eye. 

Then  there  was  preaching,  and  good  store  of  speech- 
ing* 
With  dukes  and  marquises  on  bended  knee; 

[121] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  they  did  splash  her  with  raal  Macasshur, 
And  the  Queen  said,  "Ah!  then  thank  ye  all  for 
me!" 

Then  the  trumpets  braying,  and  the  organ  playing, 
And  the  swate  trombones,  with  their  silver  tones; 

But  Lord  Rolle  was  rolling — 'twas  mighty  consoling 
To  think  his  lordship  did  not  break  his  bones! 

Then  the  crames  and  custard,  and  the  beef  and 
mustard, 

All  on  the  tombstones  like  a  poultherer's  shop; 
With  lobsters  and  white-bait,  and  other  swatemeats, 

And  wine  and  nagus,  and  Imparial  Pop! 
There  was  cakes  and  apples  in  all  the  Chapels, 

With  fine  polonies,  and  rich,  mellow  pears. 
Och!  the  Count  Von  Strogonoff,  sure  he  got  prog 
enough, 

The  sly  ould  divil,  undernathe  the  stairs. 

Then  the  cannons  thunder'd,  and  the  people  won- 
der'd, 

Crying,  "God  save  Victoria,  our  Royal  Queen!" 
Och!  if  myself  should  live  to  be  a  hundred, 

Sure  it's  the  proudest  day  that  I'll  have  seen! 
And  now,  I've  ended,  what  I  pretended, 

This  narration  splendid  in  swate  poe-thry, 
Ye  dear  bewitcher,  just  hand  the  pitcher; 

Faith,  it's  mesilf  that's  getting  mighty  dhry. 

Richard  Harris  Barbam. 


[  122] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


FROM  "THE  DEVIL'S  DRIVE." 

THE  devil  returned  to  hell  by  two, 
And  he  stayed  at  home  till  five; 
When  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in 
ragout, 

And  a  rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  stew, 
And  sausages  made  of  a  self-slain  Jew — 
And  bethought  himself  what  next  to  do, 

"And,"  quoth  he,  "I'll  take  a  drive. 
I  walked  in  the  morning,  I'll  ride  to-night; 
In  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight, 
And  I'll  see  how  my  favorites  thrive. 


"And  what  shall  I  ride  in?"  quoth  Lucifer  then; 

"If  I  followed  my  taste,  indeed, 
I  should  mount  in  a  wagon  of  wounded  men, 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 
But  these  will  be  furnished  again  and  again, 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed, 
To  see  my  manor  as  much  as  I  may, 
And  watch  that  no  souls  shall  be  poached  away. 

"I  have  a  state  coach  at  Carlton  House, 

A  chariot  in  Seymour  Place, 
But  they're   lent  to  two   friends,  who   make   me 

amends 

By  driving  my  favorite  pace; 
And  they  handle  their  reins  with  such  a  grace, 
I  have  something  for  both  at  the  end  of  the  race. 
[  123  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"So  now  for  the  earth  to  take  my  chance." 

Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he, 
And  making  a  jump  from  Moscow  to  France, 

He  stepped  across  the  sea, 
And  rested  his  hoof  on  a  turnpike  road, 
No  very  great  way  from  a  bishop's  abode. 

But  first,  as  he  flew,  I  forgot  to  say, 
That  he  hovered  a  moment  upon  his  way 

To  look  upon  Leipsic  plain; 

And  so  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  sulphury  glare, 
And  so  soft  to  his  ear  was  the  cry  of  despair, 

That  he  perched  on  a  mountain  of  slain; 
And  he  gazed  with  delight  from  its  growing  height, 
Nor  often  on  earth  had  he  seen  such  a  sight, 

Nor  his  work  done  half  as  well: 
For  the  field  ran  so  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead, 

That  it  blushed  like  the  waves  of  hell! 
Then  loudly  and  wildly  and  long  laughed  he: 
"Methinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  me!" 


But  the  softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 

Was  the  sound  of  a  widow  sighing; 
And  the  sweetest  sight  was  the  icy  tear, 
Which  horror  froze  in  the  blue  eye  clear 

Of  a  maid  by  her  lover  lying, 
As  round  her  fell  her  long  fair  hair; 
And  she  looked  to  heaven  with  that  frenzied  air, 
Which  seemed  to  ask  if  a  God  were  there! 
And,  stretched  by  the  wall  of  a  ruined  hut, 
With  its  hollow  cheeks,  and  eyes  half  shut, 

[124] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  child  of  famine  dying: 

And  the  carnage  begun,  when  resistance  is  done, 
And  the  fall  of  the  vainly  flying! 

Lord  Byron. 

4 

FROM    "ENGLISH    BARDS  AND  SCOTCH 
REVIEWERS  " 

A  MAN  must  serve  his  time  to  ev'ry  trade 
Save  censure;  critics  all  are  ready-made. 
Take  hackney'd  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by 
rote, 

With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote; 
A  mind  well  skill'd  to  find  or  forge  a  fault, 
A  turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt; 
To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet; 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet. 
Fear  not  to  lie — 'twill  seem  a  sharper  hit; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy — 'twill   pass  for  wit; 
Care  not  for  feeling;  pass  your  proper  jest, 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment?     No!  as  soon 

Seek  roses  in  December,  ice  in  June, 

Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff, 

Believe  a  woman  or  an  epitaph, 

Or  any  other  thing  that's  false,  before 

You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves  are  sore; 

Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 

By  Jeffrey's  heart  or  Lambe's  Boeotian  head. 

To  these  young  tyrants,  by  themselves  misplaced, 

Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  taste; 


A    Satire   Anthology 


To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe, 
And  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  as  law — 
While  these  are  censors,  'twould  be  sin  to  spare; 
While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I  forbear? 
But  yet,  so  near  all  modern  worthies  run, 
'Tis  doubtful  whom  to  seek  or  whom  to  shun; 
Nor  know  we  when  to  spare  or  where  to  strike, 
Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 
Then  should  you  ask  me  why  I  venture  o'er 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before; 
If  not  yet  sicken'd,  you  can  still  proceed; 
Go  on;  my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 
"But    hold!"    exclaims    a    friend — "here's    some 

neglect: 

This,  that,  and  t'other  line  seems  incorrect." 
What  then  ?  the  self-same  blunder  Pope  has  got, 
And  careless  Dryden —     "Ay,  but  Pye  has  not." 
Indeed !  'tis  granted,  faith !  but  what  care  I  ? 
Better  to  err  with  Pope  than  shine  with  Pye. 

Lord  Byron. 

TO  WOMAN 

WOMAN,  experience  might  have  told  me 
That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee; 
Surely  experience  might  have  taught, 
Thy  firmest  promises  are  naught; 
But,  placed  in  all  thy  charms  before  me, 
All  I  forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 
O  Memory!  thou  choicest  blessing, 
When  join'd  with  hope,  when  still  possessing; 
But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover, 
When  hope  is  fled,  and  passion's  over! 
[126] 


A    Satire   A  nthol'o  gy 


Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver, 
How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her! 
How  throbs  the  pulse  when  first  we  view 
The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue, 
Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 
A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows! 
How  quick  we  credit  every  oath, 
And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth! 
Fondly  we  hope  'twill  last  for  aye, 
When,  lo!  she  changes  in  a  day. 
This  record  will  forever  stand, 
"Woman,  thy  vows  are  trac'd  in  sand.", 

Lord  Byron. 

A  COUNTRY  HOUSE  PARTY 

THE  gentlemen  got  up  betimes  to  shoot 
Or  hunt:  the  young,  because  they  liked 

the  sport — 
The  first  thing  boys  like  after  play  and  fruit; 

The  middle-aged  to  make  the  day  more  short; 
For  ennui  is  a  growth  of  English  root, 

Though  nameless  in  our  language:  we  retort 
The  fact  for  words,  and  let  the  French  translate 
That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  cannot  abate. 

The  elderly  walk'd  through  the  library, 

And  tumbled  books,  or  criticised  the  pictures, 

Or  saunter'd  through  the  gardens  piteously, 

And  made  upon  the  hothouse  several  strictures; 

Or  rode  a  nag  which  trotted  not  too  high, 

Or  on  the  morning  papers  read  their  lectures; 
[  127] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Or  on  the  watch  their  longing  eyes  would  fix, 
Longing,  at  sixty,  for  the  hour  of  six. 

But  none  were  gene:  the  great  hour  of  union 
Was  rung  by  dinner's  knell;  till  then  all  were 

Masters  of  their  own  time — or  in  communion, 
Or  solitary,  as  they  chose  to  bear 

The    hours,   which    how   to   pass   is    but   to   few 

known. 
Each  rose  up  at  his  own,  and  had  to  spare 

What  time  he  chose  for  dress,  and  broke  his  fast 

When,  where,  and  how  he  chose  for  that  repast. 

The  ladies — some  rouged,  some  a  little  pale — 
Met  the  morn    as   they   might.      If   fine,  they 
rode, 

Or  walk'd;  if  foul,  they  read,  or  told  a  tale, 

Sung,  or  rehearsed  the  last  dance  from  abroad; 

Discuss'd  the  fashion  which  might  next  prevail, 
And  settled  bonnets  by  the  newest  code; 

Or  cramm'd  twelve  sheets  into  one  little  letter, 

To  make  each  correspondent  a  new  debtor. 

For  some  had  absent  lovers,  all  had  friends. 

The  earth  has  nothing  like  a  she-epistle, 
And  hardly  heaven — because  it  never  ends. 

I  love  the  mystery  of  a  female  missal, 
Which,  like  a  creed,  ne'er  says  all  it  intends, 

But,  full  of  cunning  as  Ulysses'  whistle 
When  he  allured  poor  Dolon.     You  had  better 
Take  care  what  you  reply  to  such  a  letter. 
[128] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Then  there  were  billiards;  cards,  too,  but  no  dice — 
Save  in  the  clubs,  no  man  of  honour  plays; 

Boats  when  'twas  water,  skating  when  'twas  ice, 
And  the  hard  frost  destroy'd  the  scenting  days: 

And  angling,  too,  that  solitary  vice, 

Whatever  Izaak  Walton  sings  or  says: 

The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 

Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it. 

With  evening  came  the  banquet  and  the  wine; 

The  conversazione;  the  duet, 
Attuned  by  voices  more  or  less  divine 

(My  heart  or  head  aches  with  the  memory  yet). 
The  four  Miss  Rawbolds  in  a  glee  would  shine; 

But  the  two  youngest  loved  more  to  be  set 
Down  to  the  harp — because  to  music's  charms 
They  added  graceful  necks,  white  hands  and  arms. 

Sometime  a  dance  (though  rarely  on  field-days, 
For  then  the  gentlemen  were  rather  tired) 

Display'd  some  sylph-like  figures  in  its  maze: 
Then  there  was  small-talk  ready  when  required; 

Flirtation,  but  decorous;  the  mere  praise 

Of  charms  that  should  or  should  not  be  admired. 

The  hunters  fought  their  fox-hunt  o'er  again. 

And  then  retreated  soberly — at  ten. 

The  politicians,  in  a  nook  apart, 

Discuss'd  the  world,  and  settled  all  the  spheres: 
The  wits  watch'd  every  loophole  for  their  art, 

To  introduce  a  ban  mot,  head  and  ears. 
Small  is  the  rest  of  those  who  would  be  smart. 

[  I29] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


A  moment's  good  thing  may  have  cost  them  years 
Before  they  find  an  hour  to  introduce  it; 
And  then,  even  then,  some  bore  may   make   them 
lose  it. 

But  all  was  gentle  and  aristocratic 

In  this  our  party;  polish'd,  smooth,  and  cold, 
As  Phidian  forms  cut  out  of  marble  Attic. 

There  now  are  no  Squire  Westerns,  as  of  old; 
And  our  Sophias  are  not  so  emphatic, 

But  fair  as  then,  or  fairer  to  behold. 
We  have  no  accomplish'd  blackguards,  like  Tom 

Jones, 
But  gentlemen  in  stays,  as  stiff  as  stones. 

They  separated  at  an  early  hour — 

That  is,  ere  midnight,  which  is  London's  noon; 
But  in  the  country,  ladies  seek  their  bower 

A  little  earlier  than  the  waning  moon. 
Peace  to  the  slumbers  of  each  folded  flower — 

May  the  rose  call  back  its  true  colour  soon! 
Good  hours  of  fair  cheeks  are  the  fairest  tinters, 
And  lower  the  price  of  rouge — at  least  some  win- 
ters. Lord  Byron. 


I 


GREEDINESS  PUNISHED 

T  was  the  cloister  Grabow,  in  the  land  of  Use- 

dom; 
For  years  had  God's  free  goodness  to  fill    its 

larder  come: 
They  might  have  been  contented! 

[  130] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Along  the  shore  came  swimming,  to  give  the  monks 

good  cheer 

Who  dwelt  within  the  cloister,  two  fishes  every  year: 
They  might  have  been  contented! 

Two  sturgeons — two  great  fat  ones;  and  then  this 

law  was  set, 

That  one  of  them  should  yearly  be  taken  in  a  net: 
They  might  have  been  contented! 

The  other  swam  away  then  until  next  year  came 

round, 
Then  with  a  new  companion  he  punctually  was 

found : 

They  might  have  been  contented! 

So  then  again  they  caught  one,  and  served  him  in 

the  dish, 

And  regularly  caught  they,  year  in,  year  out,  a  fish: 
They  might  have  been  contented! 

One  year,  the  time  appointed  two  such  great  fishes 

brought, 
The  question  was  a  hard  one,  which  of  them  should 

be  caught: 

They  might  have  been  contented! 

They  caught  them  both  together,  but  every  greedy 

wight 
Just  spoiled  his  stomach  by  it;  it  served  the  gluttons 

right: 

They  might  have  been  contented! 

[131] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


This  was  the  least  of  sorrows :  hear  how  the  cup  ran 
o'er! 

Henceforward  to  the  cloister  no  fish  came  swim- 
ming more: 

They  might  have  been  contented! 

So  long  had  God  supplied  them  of  his  free  grace 

alone, 

That  now  it  is  denied  them,  the  fault  is  all  their  own : 
They  might  have  been  contented! 

Fnedncb  Ruckert. 


WOMAN 

ALL  honour  to  woman,  the  sweetheart,  the  wife, 
The  delight  of  our  firesides  by  night  and 

by  day, 

Who  never  does  anything  wrong  in  her  life, 
Except  when  permitted  to  have  her  own  way. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 


THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR  MAN 

SO  goes  the  world.     If  wealthy,  you  may  call 
This  friend,  that  brother — friends  and  broth- 
ers all; 

Though  you  are  worthless,  witless,  never  mind  it; 
You  may  have  been  a  stable-boy — what  then  ? 
'Tis  wealth,  good  sir,  makes  honourable  men. 
You  seek  respect,  no  doubt,  and  you  will  find  it. 

[  132] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


But  if  you're  poor,  Heaven  help  you!     Though  your 

sire 

Had  royal  blood  within  him,  and  though  you 
Possess  the  intellect  of  angels,  too, 
'Tis  all  in  vain;  the  world  will  ne'er  inquire 
On  such  a  score.     Why  should  it  take  the  pains  ? 
'Tis  easier  to  weigh  purses,  sure,  than  brains. 

I  once  saw  a  poor  devil,  keen  and  clever, 
Witty  and  wise;  he  paid  a  man  a  visit, 
And  no  one  noticed  him,  and  no  one  ever 
Gave  him  a  welcome.     "  Strange,"  cried  I,  "whence 
it  is  so!" 

He  walked  on  this  side,  then  on  that, 
He  tried  to  introduce  a  social  chat; 
Now  here,  now  there,  in  vain  he  tried; 
Some  formally  and  freezingly  replied,  and  some 
Said  by  their  silence,  "Better  stay  at  home." 

A  rich  man  burst  the  door — 

As  Croesus  rich,  I'm  sure; 
He  could  not  pride  himself  upon  his  wit 
Nor  wisdom,  for  he  had  not  got  a  bit: 
He  had  what's  better — he  had  wealth. 

What  a  confusion!     All  stand  up  erect! 
These  crowd  around  to  ask  him  of  his  health; 

These  bow  in  honest  duty  and  respect; 
And  these  arrange  a  sofa  or  a  chair, 
And  these  conduct  him  there. 
"Allow  me,  sir,  the  honour;"  then  a  bow 
Down  to  the  earth.     Is't  possible  to  show 
Meet  gratitude  for  such  kind  condescension  ? 

[  133  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  poor  man  hung  his  head, 

And  to  himself  he  said, 
"This  is  indeed  beyond  my  comprehension." 

Then  looking  round, 

One  friendly  face  he  found, 
And  said,  "  Pray  tell  me,  why  is  wealth  preferred 
To  wisdom?"     "That's  a  silly  question,  friend," 
Replied  the  other;  "have  you  never  heard, 

A  man  may  lend  his  store 

Of  gold  or  silver  ore, 
But  wisdom  none  can  borrow,  none  can  lend?" 

Sir  "John  Bownng. 
(From  the  Russian  of  Kremnitzer.) 

OZYMANDIAS 

I  MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land, 
Who  said:    "Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of 

stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command, 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed. 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  mighty,  and  despair!' 
Nothing  besides  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away." 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

[134] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


GUI  BONO? 

WHAT  is  hope  ?     A  smiling  rainbow 
Children  follow  through  the  wet. 
'Tis  not  here— still  yonder,  yonder; 
Never  urchin  found  it  yet. 

What  is  life  ?     A  thawing  iceboard 

On  a  sea  with  sunny  shore. 
Gay  we  sail;  it  melts  beneath  us; 

We  are  sunk,  and  seen  no  more. 

What  is  man  ?     A  foolish  baby; 

Vainly  strives,  and  fights,  and  frets; 
Demanding  all,   deserving  nothing, 

One  small  grave  is  what  he  gets! 

Thomas  Carlyle. 


FATHER-LAND  AND  MOTHER-TONGUE 

OUR  Father-land!      And  would'st  thou  know 
Why  we  should  call  it  Father-land? 
It  is,  that  Adam  here  below 
Was  made  of  earth  by  Nature's  hand; 
And  he,  our  father,  made  of  earth, 

Hath  peopled  earth  on  ev'ry  hand, 
And  we,  in  memory  of  his  birth, 
Do  call  our  country  "Father-land." 

[135] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


At  first,  in  Eden's  bowers,  they  say, 

No  sound  of  speech  had  Adam  caught, 
But  whistled  like  a  bird  all  day, 

And  may  be  'twas  for  want  of  thought. 
But  Nature,  with  resistless  laws, 

Made  Adam  soon  surpass  the  birds; 
She  gave  him  lovely  Eve,  because, 

If  he'd  a  wife,  they  must  have  words. 

And  so,  the  native  land,  I  hold, 

By  male  descent  is  proudly  mine; 
The  language,  as  the  tale  hath  told, 

Was  given  in  the  female  line. 
And  thus,  we  see,  on  either  hand, 

We  name  our  blessings  whence  they've  sprung; 
We  call  our  country  Father-/an</; 

We  call  our  language  M.ot\\er-tongue. 

Samuel  Lover. 


FATHER  MOLLOY 

OR,  THE  CONFESSION 

FDDY  McCABE  was  dying  one  day, 
And  Father  Molloy  he  came  to  confess  him; 
Paddy  pray'd  hard  he  would  make  no  delay, 
But  forgive  him  his  sins  and  make  haste  for  to 

bless  him. 

"First  tell  me  your  sins,"  says  Father  Molloy, 
"  For  I'm  thinking  you've  not  been  a  very  good  boy." 
"Oh,"  says  Paddy,  "so  late  in  the  evenin',  I  fear, 
'Twould  throuble  you  such  a  long  story  to  hear, 


A    Satire   Anthology 


For  you've  ten  long  miles  o'er  the  mountains  to  go, 
While  the  road  I've  to  travel's  much  longer,  you 

know. 

So  give  us  your  blessin'  and  get  in  the  saddle; 
To  tell  all  my  sins  my  poor  brain  it  would  addle; 
And  the  docther  gave  ordhers  to  keep  me  so  quiet — 
'Twould  disturb  me  to  tell  all  my  sins,  if  I'd  thry  it, 
And    your    Reverence    has    tould    us,   unless    we 

tell  all, 

'Tis  worse  than  not  makin'  confession  at  all. 
So  I'll  say  in  a  word  I'm  no  very  good  boy — 
And,  therefore,  your  blessin',  sweet  Father  Molloy." 

"Well,  I'll  read  from  a  book,"  says  Father  Molloy, 

"The  manifold  sins  that  humanity's  heir  to; 
And  when  you   hear  those  that   your  conscience 

annoy, 
You'll  just  squeeze  my  hand,  as  acknowledging 

thereto." 

Then  the  father  began  the  dark  roll  of  iniquity, 
And  Paddy,  thereat,  felt  his  conscience  grow  rickety, 
And  he  gave  such  a  squeeze  that  the  priest  gave  a 

roar. 

"Oh,  murdher,"  says  Paddy,  "don't  read  any  more, 
For,  if  you  keep  readin',  by  all  that  is  thrue, 
Your  Reverence's  fist  will  be  soon  black  and  blue; 
Besides,  to  be  throubled  my  conscience  begins, 
That  your  Reverence  should  have  any  hand  in  my 

sins, 

So  you'd  betther  suppose  I  committed  them  all, 
For  whether  they're  great  ones,  or  whether  they're 

small, 

[  137] 


A    S  at  ire   Anthology 


Or  if  they're  a  dozen,  or  if  they're  fourscore, 

'Tis  your  Reverence  knows  how  to  absolve  them, 

astore; 

So  I'll  say  in  a  word,  I'm  no  very  good  boy — 
And,  therefore,  your  blessin',  sweet  Father  Molloy." 

"Well,"  says  Father  Molloy,  "if  your  sins  I  forgive, 

So  you  must  forgive  all  your  enemies  truly; 
And  promise  me  also  that,  if  you  should  live, 
You'll  leave  off  your  old  tricks,  and  begin  to  live 

newly." 

"I  forgive  ev'rybody,"  says  Pat,  with  a  groan, 
"Except  that  big  vagabone  Micky  Malone; 
And  him  I  will  murdher  if  ever  I  can — " 

"Tut,  tut,"  says  the  priest,  "you're  a  very  bad 

man; 

For  without  your  forgiveness,  and  also  repentance, 
You'll  ne'er  go  to  heaven,  and  that  is  my  sentence." 
"Poo!"  says  Paddy  McCabe,  "that's  a  very  hard 

case — 
With  your  Reverence  and  heaven  I'm  content  to 

make  pace; 
But  with  heaven  and  your  Reverence  I  wondher — 

Och  hone — 
You  would   think   of  comparin'   that   blackguard 

Malone. 
But   since    I'm    hard    press'd,    and    that   I    must 

forgive, 

I  forgive,  if  I  die — but  as  sure  as  I  live 
That  ugly  blackguard  I  will  surely  desthroy! 
So,  now  for  your  blessin',  sweet  Father  Molloy!" 

Samuel  Lover. 

[138] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


GAFFER   GRAY 

(From  "  Hugh  Trevor.") 

HO!  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake, 
Gaffer  Gray  ? 

And  why  does  thy  nose  look  so  blue  ? 
'  'Tis  the  weather  that's  cold, 
'Tis  I'm  grown  very  old, 
And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new, 
Well-a-day!" 

Then  line  thy  worn  doubles  with  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray! 

And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass. 
"  Nay,  but  credit  I've  none, 
And  my  money's  all  gone  ; 
Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  ? 
Well-a-day!" 

Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow, 

Gaffer  Gray, 

And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest's  door. 
"  The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches, 
But  ne'er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor, 
Well-a-day!" 

The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill, 

Gaffer  Gray  ; 
Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front. 

[  139] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"  He  will  fasten  his  locks, 
And  will  threaten  the  stocks, 
Should  he  ever  more  find  me  in  want, 
Well-a-day!" 

The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray  ; 

And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there. 
"  His  beeves  and  his  beer, 
And  his  merry  New  Year, 
Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair, 
Well-a-day!" 

My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess, 

Gaffer  Gray  ; 

What  then  ?     While  it  lasts,  man,  we'll  live. 
"  The  poor  man  alone, 
When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 
Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give, 
Well-a-day!" 

Thomas  Holcroft. 


COCKLE  V.  CACKLE 

r  I  AHOSE  who  much  read  advertisement  and  bills, 
Must  have  seen  puffs  of  Cockle's  pills, 

Call'd  Anti-bilious, 

Which  some  physicians  sneer  at,  supercilious, 
But  which  we  are  assured,  if  timely  taken, 
May  save  your  liver  and  bacon; 

[  140] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Whether  or  not  they  really  give  one  ease, 

I,  who  have  never  tried, 

Will  not  decide; 

But  no  two  things  in  union  go  like  these, 
Viz.,  quacks  and  pills — save  ducks  and  pease. 
Now  Mrs.  W.  was  getting  sallow, 
Her  lilies  not  of  the  white  kind,  but  yellow, 
And  friends  portended  was  preparing  for 

A  human  pate  pengord; 
She  was,  indeed,  so  very  far  from  well, 
Her  son,  in  filial  fear,  procured  a  box 
Of  those  said  pellets  to  resist  bile's  shocks, 
And,  thou  upon  the  ear  it  strangely  knocks, 
To  save  her  by  a  Cockle  from  a  shell! 
But  Mrs.  W,,  just  like  Macbeth, 
Who  very  vehemently  bids  us  "throw 
Bark  to  the  Bow-wows,"  hated  physic  so, 
It  seem'd  to  share  "the  bitterness  of  death": 
Rhubarb,  magnesia,  jalap,  and  the  kind, 
Senna,  steel,  asafoetida,  and  squills, 
Powder  or  draught;  but  least  her  throat  inclined 
To  give  a  course  to  boluses  or  pills. 
No,  not  to  save  her  life,  in  lung  or  lobe, 
For  all  her  lights'  or  liver's  sake, 
Would  her  convulsive  thorax  undertake 
Only  one  little  uncelestial  globe! 

'Tis  not  to  wonder  at,  in  such  a  case, 
If  she  put  by  the  pill-box  in  a  place 
For  linen  rather  than  for  drugs  intended; 
Yet,  for  the  credit  of  the  pills,  let's  say, 

After  they  thus  were  stow'd  away, 

Some  of  the  linen  mended. 

[HI] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  Mrs.  W.  by  disease's  dint,  , 

Kept  getting  still  more  yellow  in  her  tint, 
When  lo!  her  second  son,  like  elder  brother, 
Marking  the  hue  on  the  parental  gills, 
Brought  a  new  charge  of  Anti-turmeric  Pills, 
To  bleach  the  jaundiced  visage  of  his  mother; 
Who    took    them  —  in    her    cupboard  —  like    the 

other. 

''Deeper  and  deeper  still,"  of  course, 
The  fatal  colour  daily  grew  in  force; 
Till  daughter  W.,  newly  come  from  Rome, 
Acting  the  selfsame  filial,  pillial  part, 
To  cure  mamma,  another  dose  brought  home 
Of  Cockles — not  the  Cockles  of  her  heart! 
These  going  where  the  others  went  before, 
Of  course  she  had  a  very  pretty  store. 
And  then   some  hue  of  health  her  cheek  adorn- 
ing* 

The  medicine  so  good  must  be, 
They  brought  her  dose  on  dose,  which  she 

Gave  to  the  up-stairs  cupboard,  "night  and  morn- 

>» 

mg. ; 

Till,  wanting  room  at  last  for  other  stocks, 
Out  of  the  window  one  fine  day  she  pitch'd 
The  pillage  of  each  box,  and  quite  enrich'd 
The  feed  of  Mister  BurrelPs  hens  and  cocks. 

A  little  Barber  of  a  bygone  day, 

Over  the  way, 

Whose  stock  in  trade,  to  keep  the  least  of  shops, 
Was  one  great  head  of  Kemble — that  is,  John — 
Staring  in  plaster,  with  a  Brutus  on, 
And  twenty  little  Bantam  fowls,  with  crops. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Little  Dame  W.  thought,  when  through  the  sash 

She  gave  the  physic  wings, 

To  find  the  very  things 
So  good  for  bile,  so  bad  for  chicken  rash, 
For  thoughtless  cock  and  unreflecting  pullet! 
But  while  they  gathered  up  the  nauseous  nubbles, 
Each  peck'd  itself  into  a  peck  of  troubles, 
And  brought  the  hand  of  Death  upon  its  gullet. 
They  might  as  well  have  addled  been,  or  rattled, 
For  long  before  the  night— ah,  woe  betide 
The  pills! — each  suicidal  Bantam  died, 

Unfatted ! 

Think  of  poor  Burrell's  shock, 
Of  Nature's  debt  to  see  his  hens  all  payers, 
And  laid  in  death  as  Everlasting  Layers, 
With  Bantam's  small  ex-Emperor,  the  Cock, 
In  ruffled  plumage  and  funereal  hackle, 
Giving,  undone  by  Cockle,  a  last  cackle! 
To  see  as  stiff  as  stone  his  unlive  stock, 
It  really  was  enough  to  move  his  block. 
Down  on  the  floor  he  dash'd,  with  horror  big, 
Mr.  Bell's  third  wife's  mother's  coachman's  wig; 
And  with  a  tragic  stare  like  his  own  Kemble, 
Burst  out  with  natural  emphasis  enough, 

And  voice  that  grief  made  tremble, 
Into  that  very  speech  of  sad  MacdufF: 
"What!  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam, 

At  one  fell  swoop! 

Just  when  I'd  bought  a  coop, 
To  see  the  poor  lamented  creatures  cram!" 

After  a  little  of  this  mood, 

And  brooding  over  the  departed  brood, 

[143] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


With  razor  he  began  to  ope  each  craw, 
Already  turning  black,  as  black  as  coals; 
When  lo!  the  undigested  cause  he  saw — 
"Pison'd  by  goles!" 

To  Mrs.  W.'s  luck  a  contradiction, 

Her  window  still  stood  open  to  conviction; 

And  by  short  course  of  circumstantial  labour, 

He  fix'd  the  guilt  upon  his  adverse  neighbour. 

Lord!  how  he  rail'd  at  her,  declaring  how, 

He'd  bring  an  action  ere  next  term  of  Hilary; 

Then,  in  another  moment,  swore  a  vow 

He'd  make  her  do  pill-penance  in  the  pillory! 

She,  meanwhile  distant  from  the  dimmest  dream 

Of  combating  with  guilt,  yard-arm  or  arm-yard, 

Lapp'd  in  a  paradise  of  tea  and  cream; 

When  up  ran  Betty  with  a  dismal  scream: 

"  Here's  Mr.  Burrell,  ma'am,  with  all  his  farmyard ! " 

Straight  in  he  came,  unbowing  and  unbending, 

With  all  the  warmth  that  iron  and  a  barber 

Can  harbour; 

To  dress  the  head  and  front  of  her  offending, 
The  fuming  phial  of  his  wrath  uncorking; 
In  short,  he  made  her  pay  him  altogether, 
In  hard  cash,  very  hard,  for  ev'ry  feather, 
Charging,  of  course,  each  Bantam  as  a  Dorking. 
Nothing  could  move  him,  nothing  make  him  supple, 
So  the  sad  dame,  unpocketing  her  loss, 
Had  nothing  left  but  to  sit  hands  across, 
And  see  her  poultry  "going  down  ten  couple." 

Now  birds  by  poison  slain, 
As  venom'd  dart  from  Indian's  hollow  cane, 

[  144] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Are  edible;  and  Mrs.  W.'s  thrift- 
She  had  a  thrifty  vein — 

Destined  one  pair  for  supper  to  make  shift — 

Supper,  as  usual,  at  the  hour  of  ten. 

But  ten  o'clock  arrived,  and  quickly  pass'd — 

Eleven — twelve — and  one  o'clock  at  last, 

Without  a  sign  of  supper  even  then ! 

At  length,  the  speed  of  cookery  to  quicken, 

Betty  was  called,  and  with  reluctant  feet, 
Came  up  at  a  white  heat: 

"Well,  never  I  see  chicken  like  them  chicken! 

My  saucepans,  they  have  been  a  pretty  while  in  'em! 

Enough  to  stew  them,  if  it  comes  to  that, 

To  flesh  and  bones,  and  perfect  rags;  but  drat 

Those  Anti-biling  Pills!  there  is  no  bile  in  'em!" 

Thomas  Hood. 

OUR   VILLAGE 

OUR  village,  that's  to  say,  not  MissMitford's  vil- 
lage, but  our  village  of  Bullock's  Smithy, 
Is  come  into  by  an  avenue  of  trees,  three 
oak  pollards,  two  elders,  and  a  withy  ; 
And  in  the  middle  there's  a  green,  of  about  not 

exceeding  an  acre  and  a  half ; 

It's  common  to  all  and  fed  off  by  nineteen  cows, 
six  ponies,  three  horses,  five  asses,  two  foals, 
seven  pigs  and  a  calf! 
Besides  a  pond  in  the  middle,  as  is  held  by  a  sort 

of  common  law  lease, 

And  contains  twenty  ducks,  six  drakes,  three  gan- 
ders, two  dead  dogs,  four  drowned  kittens, 
and  twelve  geese. 

[145] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Of  course  the  green's  cropt  very  close,  and  does 
famous  for  bowling  when  the  little  village 
boys  play  at  cricket  ; 

Only  some  horse,  or  pig,  or  cow,  or  great  jackass, 
is  sure  to  come  and  stand  right  before  the 
wicket. 

There's  fifty-five  private  houses,  let  alone  barns 
and  workshops,  and  pig-sties,  and  poultry 
huts,  and  such-like  sheds, 

With  plenty  of  public-houses — two  Foxes,  one  Green 
Man,  three  Bunch  of  Grapes,  one  Crown,  and 
six  King's  Heads. 

The  Green  Man  is  reckoned  the  best,  as  the  only 
one  that  for  love  or  money  can  raise 

A  postillion,  a  blue  jacket,  two  deplorable  lame 
white  horses,  and  a  ramshackle  ''  neat  post- 
chaise!  " 

There's  one  parish  church  for  all  the  people,  what- 
soever may  be  their  ranks  in  life  or  their 
degrees, 

Except  one  very  damp,  small,  dark,  freezing  cold, 
little  Methodist  Chapel  of  Ease  ; 

And  close  by  the  churchyard,  there's  a  stone-ma- 
son's yard,  that  when  the  time  is  seasonable 

Will  furnish  with  afflictions  sore  and  marble  urns 
and  cherubims,  very  low  and  reasonable. 

There's  a  cage  comfortable  enough  ;  I've  been  in 
it  with  Old  Jack  Jeffery  and  Tom  Pike  ; 

For  the  Green  Man  next  door  will  send  you  in 
ale,  gin,  or  anything  else  you  like. 

I  can't  speak  of  the  stocks,  as  nothing  remains  of 
them  but  the  upright  post  ; 

[I46] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  the  pound  is  kept  in  repairs  for  the  sake  of 

Cob's  horse  as  is  always  there  almost. 
There's  a  smithy  of  course,  where  that  queer  sort 

of  a  chap  in  his  way,  Old  Joe  Bradley, 
Perpetually  hammers  and  stammers,  for  he  stutters 

and  shoes  horses  very  badly. 
There's  a  shop  of  all  sorts  that  sells  everything, 

kept  by  the  widow  of  Mr.  Task  ; 
But  when  you  go  there  it's  ten  to  one  she's  out  of 

everything  you  ask. 
You'll  know  her  house  by  the  swarm  of  boys,  like 

flies,  about  the  old  sugary  cask  : 
There  are  six  empty  houses  and  not  so  well  papered 

inside  as  out. 
For  bill-stickers  won't  beware,  but  stick  notices  of 

sales  and  election  placards  all  about. 
That's  the  Doctor's  with  a  green  door,  where  the 

garden  pots  in  the  window  is  seen  ; 
A  weakly  monthly  rose  that  don't  blow,  and  a  dead 

geranium,   and   a   tea    plant  with   five    black 

leaves,  and  one  green. 
As  for  hollyhocks  at  the  cottage  doors,  and  the 

honeysuckles  and  jasmines,  you  may  go  and 

whistle  ; 
But  the  Tailor's  front  garden  grows  two  cabbages, 

a  dock,  a  ha'porth  of  pennyroyal,  two  dande- 
lions, and  a  thistle! 
There  are  three  small  orchards — Mr.  Busby's  the 

schoolmaster's  is  the  chief — 
With  two  pear  trees  that  don't  bear  ;  one  plum, 

and  an  apple  that  every  year  is  stripped  by  a 

thief. 

[147] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


There's  another  small  day-school  too,  kept  by  the 

respectable  Mrs.  Gaby, 
A  select  establishment  for  six  little  boys,  and  one 

big,  and  four  little  girls  and  a  baby  ; 
There's  a  rectory  with  pointed  gables  and  strange 

odd  chimneys  that  never  smokes, 
For  the  Rector  don't  live  on  his  living  like  other 

Christian  sort  of  folks  ; 
There's  a  barber  once  a  week  well  filled  with  rough 

black-bearded,  shock-headed  churls, 
And  a  window  with  two  feminine  men's  heads,  and 

two  masculine  ladies  in  false  curls  ; 
There's  a  butcher,  and  a  carpenter's,  and  a  plumber, 

and  a  small  green  grocer's,  and  a  baker, 
But  he  won't  bake  on  a  Sunday  ;  and  there's  a 

sexton  that's  a  coal  merchant  besides,  and  an 

undertaker  ; 
And  a  toy-shop,  but  not  a  whole  one,  for  a  village 

can't  compare  with  the  London  shops  ; 
One  window  sells   drums,  dolls,  kites,  carts,  bats, 

Clout's    balls,   and  the  other  sells  malt  and 

hops. 
And  Mrs.  Brown,  in  domestic  economy,  not  to  be  a 

bit  behind  her  betters, 

Lets  her  house  to  a  milliner,  a  watchmaker,  a  rat- 
catcher, a  cobbler,  lives  in  it  herself,  and  it's 

the  post-office  for  letters. 
Now  I've  gone   through  all  the  village — ay,  from 

end  to  end,  save  and  except  one  more  house, 
But  I  haven't  come  to  that — and  I  hope  I  never 

shall — and  that's  the  village  Poor  House! 

Thomas  Hood. 

[  I48  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


T 


THE  DEVIL  AT  HOME 
HE  Devil  sits  in  his  easy  chair, 


Sipping  his  sulphur  tea, 
And  gazing  out,  with  a  pensive  air, 

O'er  the  broad  bitumen  sea; 
Lulled  into  sentimental  mood 

By  the  spirits'  far-off  wail, 
That  sweetly,  o'er  the  burning  flood, 

Floats  on  the  brimstone  gale! 
The  Devil,  who  can  be  sad  at  times, 

In  spite  of  all  his  mummery, 
And  grave — though  not  so  prosy  quite 

As  drawn  by  his  friend  Montgomery — 
The  Devil  to-day  has  a  dreaming  air, 
And  his  eye  is  raised,  and  his  throat  is  bare; 
His  musings  are  of  many  things, 

That,  good  or  ill,  befell, 
Since  Adam's  sons  macadamized 

The  highways  into  hell: 
And  the  Devil — whose  mirth  is  never  loud — 

Laughs  with  a  quiet  mirth, 
As  he  thinks  how  well  his  serpent-tricks 

Have  been  mimicked  upon  earth; 
Of  Eden,  and  of  England  soiled, 

And  darkened  by  the  foot 
Of  those  who  preach  with  adder-tongues, 

And  those  who  eat  the  fruit; 
Of  creeping  things,  that  drag  their  slime 

Into  God's  chosen  places, 
And  knowledge  leading  into  crime 

Before  the  angels'  faces; 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Of  lands,  from  Nineveh  to  Spain, 
That  have  bowed  beneath  his  sway, 

And  men  who  did  his  work,  from  Cain 
To  Viscount  Castlereagh ! 

Thomas  Kibble  Hervey. 

From  "  The  Devil's  Progress." 

HOW  TO  MAKE  A  NOVEL 

r  I  ^RY  with  me,  and  mix  what  will  make  a  novel, 
All  hearts  to  transfix  in  house  or  hall  or 

hovel: 

Put  the  caldron  on,  set  the  bellows  blowing; 
We'll  produce  anon  something  worth  the  showing. 

Never  mind  your  plot — 'tisn't  worth  the  trouble; 
Throw  into  the  pot  what  will  boil  and  bubble. 
Character's  a  jest — what's  the  use  of  study? 
All  will   stand  the  test  that's   black  enough  and 
bloody. 

Here's    the    Newgate    Guide,    here's    the    Causes 

Celebres; 

Tumble  in,  besides,  pistol,  gun,  and  sabre; 
These  police  reports,  those  Old  Bailey  trials, 
Horrors  of  all  sorts,  to  match  the  Seven  Vials. 

Down  into  a  well,  lady,  thrust  your  lover; 
Truth,  as  some  folks  tell,  there  he  may  discover; 
Step-dames,  sure  though  slow,  rivals  of  your  daugh- 
ters. 
Bring,  as  from  below,  Styx  and  all  its  waters. 

[150] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Crime  that  breaks  all  bounds,  bigamy  and  arson, 
Poison,  blood,  and  wounds,  will  carry  well  the  farce 

on; 

Now  it's  just  in  shape;  yet,  with  fire  and  murder, 
Treason,  too,  and  rape  might  help  it  all  the  further. 

Or,  by  way  of  change,  in  your  wild  narration, 
Choose  adventures  strange  of  fraud  and  persona- 
tion; 

Make  the  job  complete;  let  your  vile  assassin 
Rob,  and  forge,  and  cheat,  for  his  victim  passin'. 

Tame  is  virtue's  school;  paint,  as  more  effective, 
Villain,  knave,  and  fool,  with  always  a  detective; 
Hate  for  love  may  sit;  gloom  will  do  for  gladness; 
Banish  sense  and  wit,  and  dash  in  lots  of  madness. 

Stir  the  broth  about,  keep  the  furnace  glowing; 
Soon  we'll   pour  it  out,  in  three   bright  volumes 

flowing: 

Some  may  jeer  and  jibe;  we  know  where  the  shop  is 
Ready  to  subscribe  for  a  thousand  copies. 

Lord  Charles  N  eaves. 


TWO  CHARACTERS 

THAN  Lord  de  Vaux  there's  no  man  sooner  sees 
Whatever  at  a  glance  is  visible; 
What  is  not,  he  can  never  see  at  all. 
Quick-witted  is  he,  versatile,  seizing  points, 
He'll  see  them  all  successively,  distinctly, 
But  never  solving  questions.     Vain  he  is; 


A    Satire   Anthology 


It  is  his  pride  to  see  things  on  all  sides; 
Which  best  to  do  he  sets  them  on  their  corners. 
Present  before  him  arguments  by  scores, 
Bearing  diversely  on  the  affair  in  hand, 
Yet  never  two  of  them  can  see  together, 
Or  gather,  blend,  and  balance  what  he  sees 
To  make  up  one  account;  a  mind  it  is 
Accessible  to  reason's  subtlest  rays, 
And  many  enter  there,  but  none  converge; 
It  is  an  army  with  no  general, 
An  arch  without  a  key-stone.     Then  the  other, 
Good  Martin  Blondel-Vatre:  he  is  rich 
In  nothing  else  but  difficulties  and  doubts. 
You  shall  be  told  the  evil  of  your  scheme, 
But  not  the  scheme  that's  better.     He  forgets 
That  policy,  expecting  not  clear  gain, 
Deals  ever  in  alternatives.     He's  wise 
In  negatives,  is  skilful  at  erasures, 
Expert  in  stepping  backward,  an  adept 
At  auguring  eclipses.     But  admit 
His  apprehensions,  and  demand,  what  then  ? 
And  you  shall  find  you've  turned  the  blank  leaf 
over. 

Henry  Taylor. 


THE  SAILOR'S  CONSOLATION 

ONE  night  came  on  a  hurricane, 
The  sea  was  mountains  rolling, 
When  Barney  Buntline  turned  his  quid, 
And  said  to  Billy  Bowling: 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"A  strong  nor'-wester's  blowing,  Bill — 
Hark!  don't  ye  hear  it  roar  now? 

Lord  help  'em!  how  I  pities  all 
Unhappy  folks  on  shore  now! 

"Foolhardy  chaps  who  live  in  town — 

What  danger  they  are  all  in, 
And  now  are  quaking  in  their  beds, 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall  in. 
Poor  creatures!  how  they  envies  us, 

And  wishes,  I've  a  notion, 
For  our  good  luck,  in  such  a  storm 

To  be  upon  the  ocean. 

"  But  as  for  them  who're  out  all  day, 

On  business  from  their  houses, 
And  late  at  night  are  coming  home, 

To  cheer  the  babes  and  spouses, 
While  you  and  I,  Bill,  on  the  deck 

Are  comfortably  lying, 
My  eyes!  what  tiles  and  chimney-pots 

About  their  heads  are  flying! 

"And  very  often  have  we  heard 

How  men  are  killed  and  undone 
By  overturns  of  carriages, 

By  thieves  and  fires  in  London. 
We  know  what  risks  all  landsmen  run, 

From  noblemen  to  tailors; 
Then,  Bill,  let  us  thank  Providence 

That  you  and  I  are  sailors!" 

William  Pitt. 

[153] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


VERSES  ON  SEEING  THE  SPEAKER 
ASLEEP  IN  HIS  CHAIR  DURING 
ONE  OF  THE  DEBATES  OF  THE 
FIRST  REFORMED  PARLIAMENT 

SLEEP,  Mr.  Speaker;  'tis  surely  fair, 
If  you  mayn't  in  your  bed,  that  you  should 

in  your  chair; 

Louder  and  longer  still  they  grow, 
Tory  and  Radical,  Aye  and  No; 
Talking  by  night  and  talking  by  day. 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker;  slumber  lies 

Light  and  brief  on  a  Speaker's  eyes; 

Fielden  or  Finn  in  a  minute  or  two 

Some  disorderly  thing  will  do; 

Riot  will  chase  repose  away. 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker.     Sweet  to  men 

Is  the  sleep  that  cometh  but  now  and  then; 

Sweet  to  the  weary,  sweet  to  the  ill, 

Sweet  to  the  children  that  work  in  the  mill. 

You  have  more  need  of  repose  than  they. 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker;  Harvey  will  soon 
Move  to  abolish  the  sun  and  the  moon; 
Hume  will  no  doubt  be  taking  the  sense 
Of  the  House  on  a  question  of  sixteen  pence; 

[154] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Statesmen  will  howl,  and  patriots  bray. 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  and  dream  of  the  time, 

When  loyalty  was  not  quite  a  crime; 

When  Grant  was  a  pupil  in  Canning's  school, 

And  Palmerston  fancied  Wood  a  fool. 

Lord,  how  principles  pass  away! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may! 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 


PELTERS  OF  PYRAMIDS 

A  SHOAL  of  idlers,  from  a  merchant  craft 
Anchor'd  off  Alexandria,  went  ashore, 
And  mounting  asses  in  their  headlong  glee, 
Round  Pompey's  Pillar  rode  with  hoots  and  taunts, 
As  men  oft  say,  "What  art  thou  more  than  we?" 
Next  in  a  boat  they  floated  up  the  Nile, 
Singing  and  drinking,  swearing  senseless  oaths, 
Shouting,  and  laughing  most  derisively 
At  all  majestic  scenes.     A  bank  they  reach'd, 
And  clambering  up,  play'd  gambols  among  tombs; 
And  in  portentous  ruins  (through  whose  depths, 
The  nightly  twilight  of  departed  gods, 
Both  sun  and  moon  glanced  furtive,  as  in  awe) 
They  hid,  and  whoop'd,  and  spat  on  sacred  things. 

At  length,  beneath  the  blazing  sun  they  lounged 
Near  a  great  Pyramid.     Awhile  they  stood 
With  stupid  stare,  until  resentment  grew, 

[155] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


In  the  recoil  of  meanness  from  the  vast; 

And  gathering  stones,  they  with  coarse  oaths  and 

gibes 
(As  they  would  say,    "What  art  thou  more  than 

we?") 

Pelted  the  Pyramid !     But  soon  these  men, 
Hot  and  exhausted,  sat  them  down  to  drink — 
Wrangled,  smok'd,  spat,  and  laugh'd,  and  drowsily 
Curs'd  the  bald  Pyramid,  and  fell  asleep. 

Night  came.     A  little  sand  went  drifting  by, 
And  morn  again  was  in  the  soft  blue  heavens. 
The  broad  slopes  of  the  shining  Pyramid 
Look'd  down  in  their  austere  simplicity 
Upon  the  glistening  silence  of  the  sands, 
Whereon  no  trace  of  mortal  dust  was  seen. 

Richard  Hengist  Home. 

THE  ANNUITY 

IGAED  to  spend  a  week  in  Fife; 
An  unco  week  it  proved  to  be, 
For  there  I  met  a  waesome  wife 
Lamentin'  her  viduity. 
Her  grief  brak  out  sae  fierce  and  fell, 
I  thought  her  heart  wad  burst  the  shell; 
And — I  was  sae  left  to  mysel' — 
I  sell't  her  an  annuity. 

The  bargain  lookit  fair  eneugh — 
She  just  was  turned  o'  saxty-three. 

I  couldna  guessed  she'd  prove  sae  teugh, 
By  human  ingenuity. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  years  have  come,  and  years  have  gane, 
And  there  she's  yet,  as  stieve  as  stane; 
The  limmer's  growin'  young  again, 
Since  she  got  her  annuity. 

She's  crined  awa'  to  bane  and  skin, 

But  that,  it  seems,  is  naught  to  me; 
She's  like  to  live,  although  she's  in 

The  last  stage  o'  tenuity. 
She  munches  wi'  her  wizen'd  gums, 
An'  stumps  about  on  legs  o'  thrums, 
But  comes,  as  sure  as  Christmas  comes, 
To  ca'  for  her  annuity. 

I  read  the  tables  drawn  wi'  care 

For  an  insurance  company; 
Her  chance  o'  life  was  stated  there 

Wi'  perfect  perspicuity. 
But  tables  here,  or  tables  there, 
She's  lived  ten  years  beyond  her  share, 
An'  's  like  to  live  a  dozen  mair, 
To  ca'  for  her  annuity. 

Last  Yule  she  had  a  fearfu'  host; 

I  thought  a  kink  might  set  me  free; 
I  led  her  out,  'mang  snaw  and  frost, 

Wi'  constant  assiduity. 
But  deil  ma'  care — the  blast  gaed  by, 

And  miss'd  the  auld  anatomy — 
It  just  cost  me  a  tooth,  forbye 

Discharging  her  annuity. 

[157] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


If  there's  a  sough  o'  cholera, 

Or  typhus,  wha  sae  gleg  as  she? 

She  buys  up  baths,  an'  drugs,  an'  a', 
In  siccan  superfluity, 

She  doesna  need — she's  fever-proof; 

The  pest  walked  o'er  her  very  roof — 

She  tauld  me  sae;  an'  then  her  loof 
Held  out  for  her  annuity. 

Ae  day  she  fell,  her  arm  she  brak — 
A  compound  fracture  as  could  be; 

Nae  leech  the  cure  wad  undertake, 
Whate'er  was  the  gratuity. 

It's  cured!  she  handles  't  like  a  flail — 

It  does  as  weel  in  bits  as  hale; 

But  I'm  a  broken  man  mysel', 
Wi'  her  and  her  annuity. 

Her  broozled  flesh  and  broken  banes 
Are  weel  as  flesh  and  banes  can  be; 

She  beats  the  toads  that  live  in  stanes 
An'   fatten   in   vacuity! 

They  die  when  they're  exposed  to  air — 

They  canna  thole  the  atmosphere; 

But  her!  expose  her  onywhere, 
She  lives  for  her  annuity. 

If  mortal  means  could  nick  her  thread, 
Sma'  crime  it  wad  appear  to  me; 

Ca't  murder— or  ca't  homicide, 
I'd  justify  't,  an'  do  it  tae. 

[158] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  how  to  fell  a  withered  wife 
That's  carved  out  o'  the  tree  of  life, 
The  timmer  limmer  dares  the  knife 
To  settle  her  annuity. 

I'd  try  a  shot — but  whar's  the  mark? 

Her  vital  parts  are  hid  frae  me; 
Her  backbone  wanders  through  her  sark 

In  an  unkenn'd  corkscrewity. 
She's  palsified,  an'  shakes  her  head 
Sae  fast  about,  ye  scarce  can  see  't; 
It's  past  the  power  o'  steel  or  lead 

To  settle  her  annuity. 

She  might  be  drowned,  but  go  she'll  not 

Within  a  mile  o'  loch  or  sea; 
Or  hanged,  if  cord  could  grip  a  throat 

O'  siccan  exiguity. 
It's  fitter  far  to  hang  the  rope — 
It  draws  out  like  a  telescope; 
'Twad  tak'  a  dreadfu'  length  o'  drop 

To  settle  her  annuity. 

Will  poison  do  it  ?     It  has  been  tried, 
But  be  't  in  hash  or  fricassee, 

That's  just  the  dish  she  can't  abide, 
Whatever  kind  o'  gout  it  hae. 

It's  needless  to  assail  her  doubts; 

She  gangs  by  instinct,  like  the  brutes, 

An'  only  eats  an'  drinks  what  suits 
Hersel'  and  her  annuity. 

[159] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  Bible  says  the  age  o'  man 

Threescore  and  ten,  perchance,  may  be; 

She's  ninety-four.     Let  them  who  can, 
Explain  the  incongruity. 

She  should  hae  lived  afore  the  flood; 

She's  come  o'  patriarchal  blood; 

She's  some  auld  Pagan  mummified, 
Alive  for  her  annuity. 

She's  been  embalmed  inside  and  oot; 

She's  sauted  to  the  last  degree; 
There's  pickle  in  her  very  snoot, 

Sae  caper-like  an'  cruety. 
Lot's  wife  was  fresh  compared  to  her; 
They've  kyanized  the  useless  knir; 
She  canna  decompose — nae  mair 

Than  her  accurs'd  annuity. 

The  water-drop  wears  out  the  rock, 

As  this  eternal  jaud  wears  me; 
I  could  withstand  the  single  shock, 

But  not  the  continuity. 
It's  pay  me  here,  an'  pay  me  there, 
An'  pay  me,  pay  me,  evermair. 
I'll  gang  demented  wi'  despair — 

I'm  charged  for  her  annuity. 

George  Outram 


[160] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


MALBROUCK 

MALBROUCK,  the  prince  of  commanders, 
Is  gone  to  the  war  in  Flanders; 
His  fame  is  like  Alexander's; 
But  when  will  he  come  home  ? 

Perhaps  at  Trinity  Feast,  or 
Perhaps  he  may  come  at  Easter. 
Egad!  he  had  better  make  haste,  or 
We  fear  he  may  never  come. 

For  Trinity  Feast  is  over, 
And  has  brought  no  news  from  Dover; 
And  Easter  is  past,  moreover, 
And  Malbrouck  still  delays. 

Milady  in  her  watch-tower 
Spends  many  a  pensive  hour, 
Not  well  knowing  why  or  how  her 
Dear  lord  from  England  stays. 

While  sitting  quite  forlorn  in 
That  tower,  she  spies  returning 
A  page  clad  in  deep  mourning, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 

"O  page,  prithee,  come  faster! 
What  news  do  you  bring  of  your  master  ? 
I  fear  there  is  some  disaster, 
Your  looks  are  so  full  of  woe." 
[161] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"The  news  I  bring,  fair  lady," 
With  sorrowful  accent  said  he, 
"  Is  one  you  are  not  ready 
So  soon,  alas!  to  hear. 

"But  since  to  speak  I'm  hurried," 
Added  this  page,  quite  flurried, 
"Malbrouck  is  dead  and  buried!" 
(And  here  he  shed  a  tear.) 

"He's  dead!  he's  dead  as  a  herring! 
For  I  beheld  his  '  herring,' 
And  four  officers  transferring 
His  corpse  away  from  the  field. 

"One  officer  carried  his  sabre, 
And  he  carried  it  not  without  labour, 
Much  envying  his  next  neighbour, 
Who  only  bore  a  shield. 

"The  third  was  helmet-bearer — 
That  helmet  which  on  its  wearer 
Filled  all  who  saw  with  terror, 
And  covered  a  hero's  brains. 

"Now,  having  got  so  far,  I 
Find  that  (by  the  Lord  Harry!) 
The  fourth  is  left  nothing  to  carry; 
So  there  the  thing  remains." 

Translated  by  Father  Prout. 
[    ^2] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  MAN'S  REQUIREMENTS 

LOVE  me,  sweet,  with  all  thou  art, 
Feeling,  thinking,  seeing; 
Love  me  in  the  lightest  part, 
Love  me  in  full  being. 

Love  me  with  thine  open  youth 

In  its  frank  surrender; 
With  the  vowing  of  thy  mouth, 

With  its  silence  tender. 

Love  me  with  thine  azure  eyes, 

Made  for  earnest  granting; 
Taking  colour  from  the  skies — 
Can  Heaven's  truth  be  wanting? 

Love  me  with  their  lids,  that  fall 

Snow-like  at  first  meeting; 
Love  me  with  thine  heart,  that  all 

Neighbours  then  see  beating. 

Love  me  with  thine  hand,  stretched  out 

Freely,  open-minded: 
Love  me  with  thy  loitering  foot — 

Hearing  one  behind  it. 

Love  me  with  thy  voice,  that  turns 

Sudden  faint  above  me; 
Love  me  with  thy  blush,  that  burns 

When  I  murmur,  Love  me! 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Love  me  with  thy  thinking  soul, 

Break  it  to  love-sighing; 
Love  me  with  thy  thoughts,  that  roll 

On  through  living,  dying. 

Love  me  in  thy  gorgeous  airs, 

When  the  world  has  crown'd  thee; 

Love  me,  kneeling  at  thy  prayers, 
With  the  angels  round  thee. 

Love  me  pure,  as  musers  do, 

Up  the  woodlands  shady; 
Love  me  gayly,  fast  and  true, 

As  a  winsome  lady. 

Though  all  hopes  that  keep  us  brave, 

Further  off  or  nigher, 
Love  me  for  the  house  and  grave, 

And  for  something  higher. 

Thus,  if  thou  wilt  prove  me,  dear, 

Woman's  love  no  fable, 
7  will  love  thee — half  a  year, 

As  a  man  is  able. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

CRITICS 

MY  critic  Hammond  flatters  prettily, 
And  wants  another  volume  like  the  last. 
My  critic  Belfair  wants  another  book 
Entirely  different,  which  will  sell  (and  live?) — 
A  striking  book,  yet  not  a  startling  book. 

[164] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  public  blames  originalities 

(You  must  not  pump  spring  water  unawares 

Upon  a  gracious  public,  full  of  nerves), 

Good  things,  not  subtle,  new,  yet  orthodox, 

As  easy  reading  as  the  dog-eared  page 

That's  fingered  by  said  public  fifty  years, 

Since  first  taught  spelling  by  its  grandmother, 

And  yet  a  revelation  in  some  sort; 

That's  hard,  my  critic  Belfair!     So,  what  next? 

My  critic  Stokes  objects  to  abstract  thoughts; 

"Call  a  man  John,  a  woman,  Joan,"  says  he, 

"And  do  not  prate  so  of  humanities;" 

Whereat  I  call  my  critic  simply  Stokes. 

My  critic  Johnson  recommends  more  mirth, 

Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the  times, 

And  all  true  poets  laugh  unquenchably, 

Like  Shakespeare  and  the  gods.     That's  very  hard. 

The  gods  may  laugh,  and  Shakespeare;  Dante  smiled 

With  such  a  needy  heart  on  two  pale  lips, 

We  cry,  "Weep,  rather,  Dante."     Poems  are 

Men,  if  true  poems;  and  who  dares  exclaim 

At  any  man's  door,  "Here,  'tis  understood 

The  thunder  fell  last  week  and  killed  a  wife, 

And  scared  a  sickly  husband — what  of  that  ? 

Get  up,  be  merry,  shout,  and  clap  your  hands, 

Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the  times?" 

None  says  so  to  the  man — and  why,  indeed, 

Should  any  to  the  poem  ? 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  MISER 

A  FELLOW  all  his  life  lived  hoarding  gold, 
And,  dying,  hoarded  left  it.     And  behold, 
One  night  his  son  saw  peering  through  the 
house 

A  man,  with  yet  the  semblance  of  a  mouse, 
Watching  a  crevice  in  the  wall,  and  cried, 
"My  father?"     "Yes,"  the  Mussulman  replied, 
"Thy  father!"    "But  why  watching  thus?"    "For 

fear 

Lest  any  smell  my  treasure  buried  here." 
"But  wherefore,  sir,  so  metamousified  ?" 
"Because,  my  son,  such  is  the  true  outside 
Of  the  inner  soul  by  which  I  lived  and  died." 

Edward  Fitzgerald. 

CACOETHES  SCRIBENDI 

IF  all  the  trees  in  all  the  woods  were  men, 
And  each  and  every  blade  of  grass  a  pen; 
If  every  leaf  on  every  shrub  and  tree 
Turned  to  a  sheet  of  foolscap;  every  sea 
Were  changed  to  ink,  and  all  earth's  living  tribes 
Had  nothing  else  to  do  but  act  as  scribes, 
And  for  ten  thousand  ages,  day  and  night, 
The  human  race  should  write,  and  write,  and  write, 
Till  all  the  pens  and  paper  were  used  up, 
And  the  huge  inkstand  was  an  empty  cup, 
Still  would  the  scribblers  clustered  round  its  brink 
Call  for  more  pens,  more  paper,  and  more  ink. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

[166] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  FAMILIAR  LETTER  TO  SEVERAL 
CORRESPONDENTS 

YES,  write  if  you  want  to — there's  nothing  like 
trying; 

Who  knows  what  a  treasure  your  casket 
may  hold  ? 

I'll  show  you  that  rhyming's  as  easy  as  lying, 
If  you'll  listen  to  me  while  the  art  I  unfold. 

Here's  a  book  full  of  words:  one  can  choose  as  he 

fancies, 

As  a  painter  his  tint,  as  a  workman  his  tool; 
Just  think!  all  the  poems  and  plays  and  romances 
Were   drawn   out  of  this,  like   the  fish  from  a 
pool! 

You  can  wander  at  will  through  its  syllabled  mazes, 
And    take    all    you   want — not    a    copper    they 
cost; 

What  is  there  to  hinder  your  picking  out  phrases 
For  an  epic  as  clever  as  "Paradise  Lost"  ? 

Don't  mind  if  the  index  of  sense  is  at  zero; 

Use   words   that   run   smoothly,   whatever   they 

mean; 
Leander  and  Lillian  and  Lillibullero 

Are  much  the  same  thing  in  the  rhyming  machine. 

[  167] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


There  are  words  so  delicious  their  sweetness  will 

smother 
That    boarding-school    flavour   of  which    we're 

afraid; 
There  is  "lush"  is  a  good  one,  and  "swirl"  is 

another; 
Put  both  in  one  stanza,  its  fortune  is  made. 

With  musical  murmurs  and  rhythmical  closes 
You  can  cheat  us  of  smiles  when  you've  nothing 

to  tell; 
You  hand  us  a  nosegay  of  milliner's  roses, 

And  we  cry  with  delight,  "Oh,  how  sweet  they 
do  smell!" 

Perhaps  you  will  answer  all  needful  conditions 
For  winning  the  laurels  to  which  you  aspire, 

By  docking  the  tails  of  the  two  prepositions 
I'  the  style  o'  the  bards  you  so  greatly  admire. 

As  for  subjects  of  verse,  they  are  only  too  plenty 
For  ringing  the  changes  on  metrical  chimes; 

A  maiden,  a  moonbeam,  a  lover  of  twenty, 

Have   filled  that  great   basket  with    bushels   of 
rhymes. 

Let  me  show  you  a  picture — 'tis  far  from   irrele- 
vant— 

By  a  famous  old  hand  in  the  arts  of  design; 
'Tis  only  a  photographed  sketch  of  an  elephant; 
The  name  of  the  draughtsman  was  Rembrandt  of 
Rhine. 

[168] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


How  easy!  no  troublesome  colours  to  lay  on; 

It  can't  have  fatigued  him,  no,  not  in  the  least; 
A  dash  here  and  there  with  a  haphazard  crayon, 

And  there  stands  the  wrinkled-skinned,  baggy- 
limbed  beast. 

Just  so  with  your  verse — 'tis  as  easy  as  sketching; 

You  can   reel  off  a  song  without  knitting  your 

brow, 
As  lightly  as  Rembrandt  a  drawing  or  etching; 

It  is  nothing  at  all,  if  you  only  know  how. 

Well,  imagine  you've  printed  your  volume  of  verses; 

Your  forehead  is  wreathed  with  the  garland  of 

fame; 
Your  poem  the  eloquent  school-boy  rehearses; 

Her  album  the  school-girl  presents  for  your  name. 

Each  morning  the  post  brings  you  autograph  letters; 

You'll    answer   them    promptly — an    hour    isn't 

much 
For  the  honour  of  sharing  a  page  with  your  betters, 

With  magistrates,  members  of  Congress,  and  such. 

Of  course  you're  delighted  to  serve  the  committees 
That  come  with  requests  from  the  country  all 

round; 

You  would  grace  the  occasion  with  poems  and  ditties 
When  they've  got  a  new  school-house,  or  poor- 
house,  or  pound. 

[169] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


With  a  hymn  for  the  saints,  and  a  song  for  the  sin- 
ners, 

You  go  and  are  welcome  wherever  you  please; 
You're  a  privileged  guest  at  all  manner  of  dinners; 

You've  a  seat  on  the  platform  among  the  grandees. 


At  length  your  mere  presence  becomes  a  sensation; 

Your  cup  of  enjoyment  is  filled  to  its  brim 
With  the  pleasure  Horatian  of  digitmonstration, 

As  the  whisper  runs  round  of  "That's  he!"  or 
"That's  him!" 


But,  remember,  O  dealer  in  phrases  sonorous, 

So  daintily  chosen,  so  tunefully  matched, 
Though  you  soar  with  the  wings  of  the  cherubim 

o'er  us, 

The  ovum  was   human   from  which  you  were 
hatched. 


No  will  of  your  own,  with  its  puny  compulsion, 
Can  summon  the  spirit  that  quickens  the  lyre; 

It  comes,  if  at  all,  like  the  sibyl's  convulsion, 
And  touches  the  brain  with  a  finger  of  fire. 

So,  perhaps,  after  all,  it's  as  well  to  be  quiet, 

If  you've  nothing  you  think  is  worth  saying  in 
prose, 

As  to  furnish  a  meal  of  their  cannibal  diet 
To  the  critics,  by  publishing,  as  you  propose. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  it's  all  of  no  use,  and  I'm  sorry  I've  written; 

I  shall  see  your  thin  volume  some  day  on  my  shelf; 
For  the  rhyming  tarantula  surely  has  bitten, 

And  music  must  cure  you,  so  pipe  it  yourself. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


CONTENTMENT 

"  MAN  WANTS  BUT  LITTLE  HERE  BELOW  " 

LITTLE  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 
I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do) 
That  I  may  call  my  own; 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten; 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three — Amen! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice — - 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land; 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there, 
Some  good  bank-stock,  some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share. 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

[171] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Honours  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 
And  titles  are  but  empty  names; 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo — 
But  only  near  St.  James; 

I'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 

To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles;  'tis  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things; 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin, 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings, 

A  ruby,  and  a  pearl  or  so, 

Will  do  for  me;  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire 
(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear); 

I  own,  perhaps,  I  might  desire 
Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere — 

Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 

Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn. 
Nor  ape  the  glitt'ring  upstart  fool; 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  care — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 
Nor  losg  for  Midas'  golden  touch; 

If  Heaven  more  gen'rous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  much — 

[  172] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


HOW  TO   MAKE   A  MAN   OF 
CONSEQUENCE 

A  BROW  austere,  a  circumspective  eye. 
A  frequent  shrug  of  the  os  humeri; 
A  nod  significant,  a  stately  gait, 
A  blustering  manner,  and  a  tone  of  weight, 
A  smile  sarcastic,  an  expressive  stare: 
Adopt  all  these,  as  time  and  place  will  bear; 
Then  rest  assur'd  that  those  of  little  sense 
Will  deem  you  sure  a  man  of  consequence. 

Mark  Lemon. 


THE  WIDOW  MALONE 

DID  ye  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 
Ohone! 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 

Alone  ? 

Oh,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts, 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

L  173] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score, 

Or  more; 

And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 

In  store; 

From  the  minister  down 

To  the  Clerk  of  the  Crown, 

All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 

All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 


But  so  modest  was  Mrs.  Malone, 

'Twas  known 
No  one  ever  could  see  her  alone, 

Ohone! 

Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 
They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye, 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 


Till  one  Mister  O'Brien  from  Clare — 

How  quare. 

It's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there — 

Put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 

Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste — 

"Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own ! " 

"Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone!" 

[174] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye ! 

Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh — 

For  why  ? 

"But,  Lucius,"  says  she, 
"Since  you've  now  made  so  free, 
You  may  marry  your  Molly  Malone, 

Ohone! 
You  may  marry  your  Molly  Malone." 

There's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song, 

Not  wrong; 

And,  one  comfort,  it's  not  very  long, 

But  strong: 

If  for  widows  you  die, 

Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh, 

For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone! 

Oh!  they're  very  like  Mistress  Malone! 

Charles  Lever. 


THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE 

THERE'S  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly 
round  trot; 

To  the  churchyard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot; 
The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no  springs; 
And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  sad  driver  sings: 
Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones! 
He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 

[175] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Oh,  where  are  the  mourners  ?     Alas !  there  are  none ; 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world,  now  he's  gone; 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man; 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can. 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 

What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splashing,  and 

din! 
The  whip,  how  it  cracks,  and  the  wheels,  how  they 

spin! 

How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is  hurled ! 
The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 

Poor  pauper  defunct!  he  has  made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he's  stretched  in  a  coach; 
He's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last, 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast. 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 

You  bumpkins,  who  stare  at  your  brother  conveyed, 

Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid! 

And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you're  laid 

low, 
You've  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  gemman  to  go. 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns. 

[176] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  a  truce  to  this  strain;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad, 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end, 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend. 
Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones! 
Though  a  pauper,  he's  one  whom  his  Maker  yet 
owns. 

Thomas  Noel. 


ON  LYTTON' 

WE  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare's  art, 
And  those  fine  curses  which  he  spokt 
The  Old  Timon  with  his  noble  heart, 
That  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old;  here  comes  the  New; 

Regard  him — a  familiar  face; 
I  thought  we  knew  him.     What!  it's  you, 

The  padded  man  that  wears  the  stays; 

Who  killed  the  girls,  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote: 

O  Lion,  you  that  made  a  noise, 

And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotes.     .     .     „ 

What  profits  now  to  understand 

The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt, 
A  dapper  boot,  a  little  hand, 

If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  ?     .     .     . 

[  177  ] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


A  Timon  you!     Nay,  nay,  for  shame! 

It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest — 
That  fierce  old  man,  to  take  his  name, 

You  bandbox!     Off,  and  let  him  rest! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SORROWS   OF    WERTHER 

WERTHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 
And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 

Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


MR.  MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BALL 

GIVEN  TO  THE  NEPAULESE  AMBASSADOR  BY  THE 
PENINSULAR   AND    ORIENTAL    COMPANY 

OH,  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news? 
Bedad,  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er; 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  Ball 
To  the  Naypaulase  Ambassador. 
Begor!  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate 

At  which  I've  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 
Of  th'  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 
"We'll  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "Almack's, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's." 
With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 
And  decked  the  walls,  and  stairs,  and  halls, 

With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  Jullien's  band  it  tuck  its  stand 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 
And   soft   bassoons   played   heavenly   chunes, 

And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 
And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buffet  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was. 

[  179  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


At  ten,  before  the  ballroom  door 

His  moighty  Excellincy  was, 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd, 

So  gorgeous  and  imminse  he  was. 
His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute 

Into  the  doorway  followed  him; 
And  oh,  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 

As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him! 

The  noble  Chair  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dhrums  to  thump;  and  he 
Did  thus  evince  to  that  Black  Prince 

The  welcome  of  his  Company. 
Oh,  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys  you  saw  there,  was; 
And  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 

On  Gineral  Jung  Behawther  was! 

This  gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals 
(Bedad  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals); 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Recloinin'  on  his  cushion  was, 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair 

The  squeezin'  and  the  pushin'  was. 

O  Pat,  such  girls,  such  jukes,  and  earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentilitee! 

[180] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


There  was  Lord  de  L'Huys,  and  the  Portygeese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there, 
And  I  reckonized,  with  much  surprise, 

Our  messmate,  Bob  O'Grady,  there. 

There  was  Baroness   Brunow,  that  looked  like 
Juno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there, 
And  Countess  Roullier,  that  looked  peculiar 

Well,  in  her  robes  of  gauze  in  there. 
There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first, 

When  only  Misther  Pips  he  was), 
And  Mick  O'Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall,  and  his  ladies  all, 

And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufferin, 
And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife: 

I  wondher  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  passed, 

And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  /  go  there  ? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 

And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  jukes,  and  earls,  and  diamonds,  and  pearls, 

And  pretty  girls,  was  sporting  there; 
And  some  beside  (the  rogues!)  I  spied, 

Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 
Oh,  there's  one  I  know,  bedad  would  show 

As  beautiful  as  any  there, 
And  I'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

[181] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


DAMAGES,  TWO  HUNDRED  POUNDS. 

SPECIAL  jurymen    of   England,    who    admire 
your  country's  laws, 

And  proclaim  a  British  jury  worthy  of  the 
realm's  applause, 
Gayly  compliment   each   other  at   the  issue  of  a 

cause 

Which  was  tried  at  Guildford  'Sizes,  this  day  week, 
as  ever  was. 


Unto  that  august  tribunal  comes  a  gentleman  in 
grief 

(Special  was  the  British  jury,  and  the  judge,  the 
Baron  Chief) — 

Comes  a  British  man  and  husband,  asking  of  the 
law  relief, 

For  his  wife  was  stolen  from  him;  he'd  have  ven- 
geance on  the  thief. 


Yes,  his  wife,  the  blessed  treasure  with  the  which 

his  life  was  crowned, 
Wickedly  was  ravished  from  him  by  a  hypocrite 

profound; 
And  he  comes  before  twelve  Britons,  men  for  sense 

and  truth  renowned, 
To   award   him   for  his   damage  twenty  hundred 

sterling  pound. 

[182] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


He  by  counsel  and  attorney  there  at  Guildford  does 
appear, 

Asking  damage  of  the  villain  who  seduced  his  lady 
dear; 

But  I  can't  help  asking,  though  the  lady's  guilt  was 
all  too  clear, 

And  though  guilty  the  defendant,  wasn't  the  plain- 
tiff rather  queer? 

First  the  lady's  mother  spoke,  and  said  she'd  seen 

her  daughter  cry 
But   a   fortnight   after   marriage — early   times   for 

piping  eye; 
Six  months  after,  things  were  worse,  and  the  piping 

eye  was  black, 
And  this  gallant  British  husband  caned  his  wife 

upon  the  back. 

Three  months  after  they  were  married,  husband 

pushed  her  to  the  door, 
Told  her  to  be  off  and  leave  him,  for  he  wanted  her 

no  more. 
As  she  would  not  go,  why,  he  went:  thrice  he  left 

his  lady  dear — 
Left  her,  too,  without  a  penny,  for  more  than  a 

quarter  of  a  year. 

Mrs.  Frances  Duncan  knew  the  parties  very  well 

indeed; 
She  had  seen  him  pull  his  lady's  nose,  and  make 

her  lip  to  bleed; 

[183] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


If  he  chanced  to  sit  at  home,  not  a  single  word  he 

said; 
Once  she  saw  him  throw  the  cover  of  a  dish  at  his 

lady's  head. 

Sarah  Green,  another  witness,  clear  did  to  the  jury 

note 
How  she  saw  this  honest  fellow  seize  his  lady  by  the 

throat; 
How  he  cursed  her  and  abused  her,  beating  her  into 

a  fit, 
Till  the  pitying  next-door  neighbours  crossed  the 

wall  and  witnessed  it. 

Next  door  to  this  injured  Briton  Mr.  Owers,  a 
butcher,  dwelt; 

Mrs.  Owers's  foolish  heart  toward  this  erring  dame 
did  melt 

(Not  that  she  had  erred  as  yet — crime  was  not  de- 
veloped in  her), 

But,  being  left  without  a  penny,  Mrs.  Owers  sup- 
plied her  dinner — 

God  be  merciful  to  Mrs.  Owers,  who  was  merciful 
to  this  sinner! 

Caroline  Naylor  was  their  servant,  said  they  led  a 

wretched  life; 
Saw  this  most  distinguished  Briton  fling  a  teacup 

at  his  wife; 
He  went  out  to  balls  and  pleasures,  and  never  once, 

in  ten  months'  space, 
Sat  with  his  wife,  or  spoke  her  kindly.     This  was 

the  defendant's  case. 

[184] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Pollock,  C.  B.,  charged  the  jury;  said  the  woman's 

guilt  was  clear: 
That  was  not  the  point,  however,  which  the   jury 

came  to  hear; 
But  the  damage  to  determine  which,  as  it  should 

true  appear, 
This  most  tender-hearted  husband,  who  so  used 

his  lady  dear — 

Beat  her,  kicked  her,  caned  her,  cursed  her,  left 

her  starving,  year  by  year. 
Flung  her  from  him,  parted  from  her,  wrung  her 

neck,  and  boxed  her  ear — 
What  the   reasonable   damage  this   afflicted   man 

could  claim 
By  the  loss  of  the  affections  of  this  guilty,  graceless 

dame  ? 

Then  the  honest  British  twelve,  to  each  other  turn- 
ing round, 

Laid  their  clever  heads  together  with  a  wisdom  most 
profound: 

And  towards  his  lordship  looking,  spoke  the  fore- 
man wise  and  sound: 

"My  Lord,  we  find  for  this  here  plaintiff,  damages 
two  hundred  pound." 

So,  God  bless  the  special  jury!  pride  and  joy  of 

English  ground, 
And  the  happy  land  of  England,  where  true  justice 

does  abound! 


A    Satire   Anthology 


British  jurymen  and  husbands,  let  us  hail  this  verdict 

proper: 
If  a   British   wife  offends  you,   Britons,  you've  a 

right    o  whop  her. 

Though  you  promised  to  protect  her,  though  you 

promised  to  defend  her, 
You  are  welcome  to  neglect  her;   to  the  devil  you 

may  send  her; 
You  may  strike  her,  curse,  abuse  her;  so  declares 

our  law  renowned; 
And  if  after  this  you  lose  her,  why,  you're  paid  two 

hundred  pound. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

THE  LOST  LEADER 

I 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 
Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 
Lost  all  the  others,  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed: 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service! 

Rags — were   they    purple,  his   heart    had    been 

proud! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honoured 

him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 
Made  him  our  pattern,  to  live  and  to  die? 
[186] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us — they  watched  from 
their  graves! 

He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 
He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves! 

II 

We  shall  march  prospering,  not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us,  not  from  his  lyre; 

Deeds  will  be  done,  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire. 

Blot  out  his  name,  then;  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  un- 

trod; 

One  more  devils'  triumph,  and  sorrow  for  angels, 
One  wrong   more  to   man,  one  more  insult  to 

God! 
Life's  night  begins;  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad,  confident  morning  again! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — strike  gal- 
lantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge,  and  wait 

us, 
Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 

Robert  Browning. 


[187] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


THE   POPE   AND  THE  NET 

WHAT!  he  on  whom  our  voices  unanimously 
ran, 
Made  Pope  at  our  last  Conclave  ?     Full 

low  his  life  began: 
His  father  earned  the  daily  bread  as  just  a  fisherman. 


So  much  the  more  his  boy  minds  book,  gives  proof 

of  mother-wit, 
Becomes  first  Deacon,  and  then  Priest,  then  Bishop; 

see  him  sit 
No  less  than  Cardinal  ere  long,  while  no  one  cries 

"Unfit!" 


But  some  one  smirks,  some  other  smiles,  jogs  elbow, 

and  nods  head; 
Each   winks    at   each:     "I*    faith,    a    rise!     Saint 

Peter's  net,  instead 
Of  swords  and  keys,  is  come  in  vogue ! "    You  think 

he  blushes  red? 


Not  he,  of  humble,  holy  heart!    "Unworthy  me," 

he  sighs; 
"From   fisher's  drudge  to  Church's  prince — it  is 

indeed  a  rise! 
So,  here's  my  way  to  keep  the  fact  forever  in  my 

eyes ! " 

[188] 


4 

A    Satire   Anthology 

And  straightway  in  his  palace-hall,  where  commonly 

is  set 
Some  coat-of-arms,  some  portraiture  ancestral,  lo, 

we  met 
His  mean  estate's  reminder  in  his  fisher-father's 

net! 

Which  step  conciliates  all  and  some,  stops  cavil  in 

a  trice: 
"The  humble,  holy  heart  that  holds  of  new-born 

pride  no  spice, 
He's  just  the  saint  to  choose  for  Pope!"     Each 

adds.      "Tis  my  advice." 

So  Pope  he  was;  and  when  we  flocked — its  sacred 

slipper  on — 
To  kiss  his  foot  we  lifted  eyes,  alack,  the  thing  was 

gone— 
That  guarantee  of  lowlihead — eclipsed   that  star 

which  shone! 


Each  eyed  his  fellow;  one  and  all  kept  silence.     I 

cried  "Pish! 
I'll  make  me  spokesman  for  the  rest,  express  the 

common  wish : 
Why,  Father,  is  the  net  removed?"     "Son,  it  hath 

caught  the  fish." 

Robert  Browning. 


[I89] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER 

GR-R-R — there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence! 
Wate    your  damned  flower-pots,  do! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 
God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you! 
What!  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has   prior  claims — 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 
Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames! 


At  the  meal  we  sit  together: 

Salve  tibi!     I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year; 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop;  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt: 
What's  the  Latin   name  for  " parsley" '? 

Wha  's  the  Greek  name  for  swine's  snout? 


Whew!  we'll  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf; 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself, 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  'tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps 
Marked  with  L  for  our  initial! 

(He-he!     There  his  lily  snaps!) 

[  190] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Saint,  forsooth !    While  brown  Dolores 

Squats  outside  the  convent  bank 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick   like  horsehairs, 

Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow 
Bright  as  't  were  a  Barbary  corsair's? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show!) 

When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Crosswise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange  pulp — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate, 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 

Oh,  those  melons!     If  he's  able, 

We're  to  have  a  feast,  so  nice! 
One  goes  to  the  abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers  ?     None  double  ? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 
Strange!     And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly! 

There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

OfF  to  hell,  a  Manichee  ? 

Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper,  with  blunt  type! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe. 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woful  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in't? 

Or,  there's  Satan!     One  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of!    Hy,  Zy,  Htne 
'St,  there's  Vespers !    Plena  gratia, ' 

Ave,   Virgo!     Gr-r-r — you  swine! 

Robert  Browning. 

CYNICAL  ODE  TO  AN  ULTRA-CYNICAL 
PUBLIC 

YOU  prefer  a  buffoon  to  a  scholar, 
A  harlequin  to  a  teacher, 
A  jester  to  a  statesman, 
An   anonyma   flaring  on  horseback 
To  a  modest  and  spotless  woman — 
Brute  of  a  public! 

[  192] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


You  think  that  to  sneer  shows  wisdom; 
That  a  gibe  outvalues  a  reason; 
That  slang,  such  as  thieves  delight  in, 
Is  fit  for  the  lips  of  the  gentle, 
And  rather  a  grace  than  a  blemish — 
Thick-headed  public! 

You  think  that  if  merit's  exalted, 
'Tis  excellent  sport  to  decry  it, 
And  trail  its  good  name  in  the  gutter; 
And  that  cynics,  white-gloved  and  cravatted, 
Are  the  cream  and  quintessence  of  all  things — 
Ass  of  a  public! 

You  think  that  success  must  be  merit; 
That  honour  and  virtue  and  courage 
Are  all  very  well  in  their  places, 
But  that  money's  a  thousand  times  better — 
Detestable,  stupid,  degraded 
Pig  of  a  public! 

Charles  Mackay. 

THE  GREAT  CRITICS 

WHOM  shall  we  praise  ? 
Let's  praise  the  dead! 
In  no  men's  ways 
Their  heads  they  raise, 

Nor  strive  for  bread 
With  you  or  me. 
So,  do  you  see, 

We'll  praise  the  dead  ! 

[  193] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Let  living  men 

Dare  but  to  claim 
From  tongue  or  pen 

Their  meed  of  fame, 
We'll  cry  them  down, 
Spoil  their  renown, 
Deny  their  sense, 
Wit,  eloquence, 

Poetic  fire, 

All  they  desire. 

Our  say  is  said, 

Long  live  the  dead! 

Charles  Mackay. 


THE  LAUREATE 


w 


HO  would  not  be 

The  Laureate  bold, 
With  his  butt  of  sherry 
To  keep  him  merry, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  to  pocket  his  gold? 


'Tis  I  would  be  the  Laureate  bold! 

When  the  days  are  hot,  and  the  sun  is  strong, 

I'd  lounge  in  the  gateway  all  the  day  long, 

With  her  Majesty's  footmen  in  crimson  and  gold. 

I'd  care  not  a  pin  for  a  waiting-lord; 

But  I'd  lie  on  my  back  on  the  smooth  greensward, 

With  a  straw  in  my  mouth,  and  an  open  vest, 

And  the  cool  wind  blowing  upon  my  breast, 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  I'd  vacantly  stare  at  the  clear  blue  sky, 
And  watch  the  clouds  that  are  listless  as  I, 

Lazily,  lazily! 

And  I'd  pick  the  moss  and  the  daisies  white, 
And  chew  their  stalks  with  a  nibbling  bite; 
And  I'd  let  my  fancies  roam  abroad 
In  search  of  a  hint  for  a  birthday  ode, 

Crazily,  crazily! 

Oh,  that  would  be  the  life  for  me, 

With  plenty  to  get  and  nothing  to  do, 

But  to  deck  a  pet  poodle  with  ribbons  of  blue, 

And  whistle  all  day  to  the  Queen's  cockatoo, 

Trance-somely,  trance-somely! 
Then  the  chambermaids,  that  clean  the  rooms, 
Would  come  to  the  windows   and   rest  on   their 

brooms, 

With  their  saucy  caps  and  their  crisped  hair, 
And  they'd  toss  their  heads  in  the  fragrant  air, 
And  say  to  each  other,  "Just  look  down  there, 
At  the  nice  young  man,  so  tidy  and  small, 
Who  is  paid  for  writing  on  nothing  at  all, 

Handsomely,  handsomely!" 

They  would  pelt  me  with  matches  and  sweet  pas- 
tilles, 

And  crumpled-up  balls  of  the  royal  bills, 
Giggling  and  laughing,  and  screaming  with  fun, 
As  they'd  see  me  start,  with  a  leap  and  a  run, 
From  the  broad  of  my  back  to  the  points  of  my  toes, 
When  a  pellet  of  paper  hit  my  nose, 
Teasingly,  sneezingly. 

[195] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Then  I'd  fling  them  bunches  of  garden  flowers, 
And  hyacinths  plucked  from  the  castle  bowers; 
And  I'd  challenge  them  all  to  come  down  to  me, 
And  I'd  kiss  them  all  till  they  kissed  me, 
Laughingly,  laughingly. 

Oh,  would  not  that  be  a  merry  life, 
Apart  from  care  and  apart  from  strife, 
With  the  Laureate's  wine  and  the  Laureate's  pay, 
And  no  deductions  at  quarter-day? 
Oh,  that  would  be  the  post  for  me! 
With  plenty  to  get  and  nothing  to  do, 
But  to  deck  a  pet  poodle  with  ribbons  of  blue, 
And  whistle  a  tune  to  the  Queen's  cockatoo, 
And  scribble  of  verses  remarkably  few, 
And  empty  at  evening  a  bottle  or  two, 
Quaffingly,  quarfingly! 

'Tis  I  would  be 

The  Laureate  bold, 
With  my  butt  of  sherry 
To  keep  me  merry, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  to  pocket  my  gold! 

William  E.  Aytoun. 

WOMAN'S  WILL 

MEN,  dying,  make  their  wills,  but  wives 
Escape  a  work  so  sad; 
Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 
The  gentle  dames  have  had  ? 

yohn  Godfrey  Saxe. 

[I96] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


THE  MOURNER  A  LA  MODE 

I   SAW  her  last  night  at  a  party 
(The  elegant  party  at  Mead's), 
And  looking  remarkably  hearty 
For  a  widow  so  young  in  her  weeds; 
Yet  I  know  she  was  suffering  sorrow 

Too  deep  for  the  tongue  to  express — 
Or  why  had  she  chosen  to  borrow 

So  much  from  the  language  of  dress  ? 


Her  shawl  was  as  sable  as  night; 

And  her  gloves  were  as  dark  as  her  shawl; 
And  her  jewels — that  flashed  in  the  light — 

Were  black  as  a  funeral  pall; 
Her  robe  had  the  hue  of  the  rest, 

(How  nicely  it  fitted  her  shape!) 
And  the  grief  that  was  heaving  her  breast 

Boiled  over  in  billows  of  crape! 


What  tears  of  vicarious  woe, 

That  else  might  have  sullied  her  face, 
Were  kindly  permitted  to  flow 

In  ripples  of  ebony  lace 
While  even  her  fan,  in  its  play, 

Had  quite  a  lugubrious  scope, 
And  seemed  to  be  waving  away 

The  ghost  of  the  angel  of  Hope! 

[  197] 


A   Satire   A  nt  ho  to  gy 


Yet  rich  as  the  robes  of  a  queen 

Was  the  sombre  apparel  she  wore; 
I'm  certain  I  never  had  seen 

Such  a  sumptuous  sorrow  before; 
And  I  couldn't  help  thinking  the  beauty, 

In  mourning  the  loved  and  the  lost, 
Was  doing  her  conjugal  duty 

Altogether  regardless  of  cost! 

One  surely  would  say  a  devotion 

Performed  at  so  vast  an  expense 
Betrayed  an  excess  of  emotion 

That  was  really  something  immense; 
And  yet,  as  I  viewed,  at  my  leisure, 

Those  tokens  of  tender  regard, 
I  thought:     It  is  scarce  without  measure- 

The  sorrow  that  goes  by  the  yard! 

Ah,  grief  is  a  curious  passion; 

And  yours — I  am  sorely  afraid 
The  very  next  phase  of  the  fashion 

Will  find  it  beginning  to  fade; 
Though  dark  are  the  shadows  of  grief, 

The  morning  will  follow  the  night; 
Half-tints  will  betoken  relief, 

Till  joy  shall  be  symboled  in  white! 

Ah,  well!  it  were  idle  to  quarrel 

With  fashion,  or  aught  she  may  do; 

And  so  I  conclude  with  a  moral 
And  metaphor — warranted  new: 
[198] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


When  measles  come  handsomely  out, 
The  patient  is  safest,  they  say; 

And  the  sorrow  is  mildest,  no  doubt, 
That  works  in  a  similar  way! 

'John  Godfrey  Saxe. 

THERE  IS  NO  GOD 

THERE  is  no  God,"  the  wicked  saith, 
"And  truly  it's  a  blessing, 
For  what  he  might  have  done  with  us 
It's  better  only  guessing." 

"There  is  no  God,"  a  youngster  thinks, 

"Or  really,  if  there  may  be, 
He  surely  didn't  mean  a  man 

Always  to  be  a  baby." 

"There  is  no  God,  or  if  there  is," 

The  tradesman  thinks,  "'twere  funny 

If  he  should  take  it  ill  in  me 
To  make  a  little  money." 

"Whether  there  be,"  the  rich  man  says 

"It  matters  very  little, 
For  I  and  mine,  thank  somebody, 

Are  not  in  want  of  victual." 

Some  others,   also,  to  themselves, 
Who  scarce  so  much  as  doubt  it, 

Think  there  is  none,  when  they  are  well, 
And  do  not  think  about  it. 

[  199] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  country  folks  who  live  beneath 

The  shadow  of  the  steeple; 
The  parson  and  the  parson's  wife, 

And  mostly  married  people; 

Youths  green  and  happy  in  first  love, 

So  thankful  for  illusion; 
And  men  caught  out  in  what  the  world 

Calls  guilt,  in  first  confusion; 

And  almost  every  one  when  age, 
Disease,  or  sorrows  strike  him, 

Inclines  to  think  there  is  a  God, 
Or  something  very  like  him. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough* 

THE  LATEST  DECALOGUE 

^  I  ^HOU  shalt  have  one  God  only;  who 
Would  be  at  the  expense  of  two  ? 
No  graven  images  may  be 

Worshipped,  except  the  currency. 

Swear  not  at  all;  for,  for  thy  curse 

Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse. 

At  church  on  Sunday  to  attend 

Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  thy  friend. 

Honour  thy  parents;  that  is,  all 

From  whom  advancement  may  befall. 

Thou  shalt  not  kill;  but  need'st  not  strive 

Officiously  to  keep  alive. 

Do  not  adultery  commit; 

Advantage  rarely  comes  of  it. 
[  2OO  ] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Thou  shalt  not  steal;  an  empty  feat, 
When  it's  so  lucrative  to  cheat. 
Bear  not  false  witness;  let  the  lie 
Have  time  on  its  own  wings  to  fly. 
Thou  shalt  not  covet,  but  tradition 
Approves  all  forms  of  competition. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

FROM  "A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS" 

"  r  I  AHERE  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as  cool,  and  as 

dignified 
As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never  is 

ignified, 

Save  when  by  reflection  'tis  kindled  o'  nights, 
With  a  semblance  of  flame  by  the  chill  Northern 

Lights. 
He  may  rank  (Griswold  says  so)  first  bard  of  your 

nation 
(There's  no  doubt  that  he  stands  in  supreme  ice- 

olation); 

Your  topmost  Parnassus  he  may  set  his  heel  on, 
But  no  warm  applauses  come,  peal  following  peal 

on; 
He's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to  hang  any  zeal 

on; 
Unqualified  merits,  I'll  grant,  if  you  choose,  he  has 

'em, 

But  he  lacks  the  one  merit  of  kindling  enthusiasm; 
If  he  stir  you  at  all,  it  is  just,  on  my  soul, 
Like  being  stirred  up  with  the  very  North  Pole. 

[201   ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"  Mr.  Quivis,  or  somebody  quite  as  discerning, 

Some  scholar  who's  hourly  expecting  his  learning, 

Calls  B.  the  American  Wordsworth;  but  Words- 
worth 

May  be  rated  at  more  than  your  whole  tuneful 
herd's  worth. 

No,  don't  be  absurd,  he's  an  excellent  Bryant; 

But,  my  friends,  you'll  endanger  the  life  of  your 
client 

By  attempting  to  stretch  him  up  into  a  giant. 

"There  is  Whittier,  whose  swelling  and  vehement 

heart 

Strains  the  strait-breasted  drab  of  the  Quaker  apart, 
And  reveals  the  live  Man,  still  supreme  and  erect 
Underneath  the  bemummying  wrappers  of  sect; 
There  was  ne'er  a  man  born  who  had  more  of  the 

swing 

Of  the  true  lyric  bard,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing; 
And  his  failures  arise  (though  he  seem  not  to  know 

it) 
From  the  very  same  cause  that  has  made  him  a 

poet — 

A  fervour  of  mind  which  knows  no  separation 
'Twixt  simple  excitement  and  pure  inspiration, 
As  my  pythoness  erst  sometimes  erred  from  not 

knowing 
If  'twere  I,  or  mere  wind,  through  her  tripod  was 

blowing; 

Let  his  mind  once  get  head  in  its  favourite  direction, 
And  the  torrent  of  verse  bursts  the  dams  of  re- 
flection, 

[  202  ] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


While,  borne  with  the  rush  of  the  metre  along, 
The  poet  may  chance  to  go  right  or  go  wrong, 
Content  with  the  whirl  and  delirium  of  song; 
Then  his  grammar's  not  always  correct,  nor  his 

rhymes, 

And  he's  prone  to  repeat  his  own  lyrics  sometimes, 
Not  his  best,  though,  for  those  are  struck  off  at 

white-heats, 
When  the  heart  in  his  breast  like  a  trip-hammer 

beats, 

And  can  ne'er  be  repeated  again  any  more 
Than  they  could  have  been  carefully  plotted  before: 
Like  old  What's-his-name  there  at  the  battle  of 

Hastings 
(Who,  however,  gave  more  than  mere  rhythmical 

bastings), 

Our  Quaker  leads  off  metaphorical  fights 
For  reform  and  whatever  they  call  human  rights, 
Both  singing  and  striking  in  front  of  the  war, 
And  hitting  his  foes  with  the  mallet  of  Thor: 
Anne  haec,  one  exclaims,  on  beholding  his  knocks, 
Vestis  filii  tut,  O  leather-clad  Fox? 
Can  that  be  my  son,  in  the  battle's  mid  din, 
Preaching  brotherly  love  and  then  driving  it  in 
To  the  brain  of  the  tough  old  Goliath  of  sin, 
With    the    smoothest    of   pebbles    from    Castaly's 

spring 
Impressed  on  his  hard  moral  sense  with  a  sling  ? 

"There  is    Hawthorne,  with  genius  so  shrinking 

and  rare 

That  you  hardly  at  first  see  the  strength  that  is  there; 
[  203  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  frame  so  robust,  with  a  nature  so  sweet, 
So  earnest,  so  graceful,  so  lithe  and  so  fleet, 
Is  worth  a  descent  from  Olympus  to  meet; 
'Tis  as  if  a  rough  oak  that  for  ages  had  stood, 
With  his  gnarled  bony  branches  like  ribs  of  the 

wood, 

Should  bloom,  after  cycles  of  struggle  and  scathe, 
With  a  single  anemone  trembly  and  rathe; 
His  strength  is  so  tender,  his  wildness  so  meek, 
That  a  suitable  parallel  sets  one  to  seek — 
He's  a  John  Bunyan  Fouque,  a  Puritan  Tieck; 
When  nature  was  shaping  him,  clay  was  not  granted 
For  making  so  full-sized  a  man  as  she  wanted, 
So,  to  fill  out  her  model,  a  little  she  spared 
From  some  finer-grained  stuff" for  a  woman  prepared, 
And  she  could  not  have  hit  a  more  excellent  plan 
For  making  him  fully  and  perfectly  man. 
The  success  of  her  scheme  gave  her  so  much  delight, 
That  she  tried  it  again,  shortly  after,  in  Dwight; 
Only,  while  she  was  kneading  and  shaping  the  clay, 
She  sang  to  her  work  in  her  sweet,  childish  way, 
And  found,  when  she'd  put  the  last  touch  to  his 

soul, 
That  the  music  had  somehow  got  mixed  with  the 

whole. 

"There's  Holmes,  who  is   matchless    among  you 

for  wit — 

A  Leyden-jar  always  full-charged,  from  which  flit 
The  electrical  tingles  of  hit  after  hit; 
In  long  poems  'tis  painful  sometimes,  and  invites 
A  thought  of  the  way  the  new  telegraph  writes, 

[  2°4] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Which  pricks  down  its  little  sharp  sentences  spite- 

fully, 

As  if  you  got  more  than  you'd  title  to  rightfully, 
And  you  find  yourself  hoping  its  wild  Father  Light- 
ning 
Would  flame  in  for  a  second  and  give  you  a  fright'- 

ning. 

He  has  perfect  sway  of  what  I  call  a  sham  metre, 
But  many  admire  it:,  the  English  pentameter, 
And   Campbell,    I   think,  wrote   most    commonly 

worse, 
With  less  nerve,  swing,  and  fire  in  the  same  kind  of 

verse, 

Nor  e'er  achieved  aught  in't  so  worthy  of  praise 
As  the  tribute  of  Holmes  to  the  grand  'Marseil- 
laise.' 
You   went    crazy,  last  year,  over  Bulwer's  'New 

Timon'; 
Why,  if  B.,  to  the  day  of  his  dying,  should  rhyme 

on, 

Heaping  verses  on  verses  and  tomes  upon  tomes, 
He  could  ne'er  reach  the  best  point  and  vigour  of 

Holmes. 
His  are  just  the  fine  hands,  too,  to  weave  you  a 

lyric 

Full  of  fancy,  fun,  feeling,  or  spiced  with  satyric 
In  a  measure  so  kindly,  you  doubt  if  the  toes 
That  are  trodden  upon  are  your  own  or  your  foes." 

'James  Russell  Lowell. 


[205  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  PIOUS  EDITOR'S  CREED 

IDU  believe  in  Freedom's  cause, 
Ez  fur  away  ez  Paris  is; 
I  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 
In  them  infarnal  Pharisees; 
It's  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  an'  triggers, 
But  libbaty's  a  kind  o'  thing 
That  don't  agree  with  niggers. 


I  du  believe  the  people  want 

A  tax  on  teas  an'  coffees; 
Thet  nothin'  aint  extravygunt, 

Purvidin'  I'm  in  office; 
Fer  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 

My  eye-teeth  fill'd  their  sockets, 
An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 

Partic'larly  his  pockets. 


I  du  believe  in  any  plan 

O'  levyin'  the  taxes, 
Ez  long,  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  get  jest  wut  I  axes: 
I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an'  thin, 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote — an'  keeps  us  in 

Our  quiet  custom-houses. 
[  206  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


I  du  believe  it's  wise  an'  good 

To  send  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An'  orthydox  conditions — 
I  mean  nine  thousan'  dolls,  per  ann., 

Nine  thousan'  more  fer  outfit, 
An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 

I  du  believe  in  special  ways 

O'  prayin'  an'  convartin'; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days, 

An'  butter'd,  tu,  fer  sartin; 
I  mean  in  preyin'  till  one  busts 

On  wut  the  party  chooses, 
An'  in  convartin'  public  trusts 

To  very  privit  uses. 

I  du  believe  hard  coin's  the  stuff 

Fer  'lectioneers  to  spout  on; 
The  people's  oilers  soft  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  pervides  fer  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all, 
I  don't  care  how  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine's  paid  punctooal. 

I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 
In  the  great  Press's  freedom, 

To  p'int  the  people  to  the  goal, 
An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em. 
[207] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Palsied  the  arm  thet  forges  yokes 
At  my  fat  contracts  squintin', 

An'  wither'd  be  the  nose  thet  pokes 
Inter  the  Gov'ment  printin'! 

I  du  believe  that  I  should  give 

Wut's  his'n  unto  Caesar, 
For  it's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

Frum  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air; 
I  du  believe  thet  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  souperscription — 
Will,  conscience,  honour,  honesty, 

An'  things  o'  thet  description. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  thet  hez  the  grahtin' 
O'  jobs — in  everythin'  thet  pays, 

But  most  of  all  in  Cantin'; 
This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 

This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest; 
I  don't  believe  in  princerple, 

But,  oh!  I  du  in  interest. 

I  du  believe  in  bein'  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen, 
One  way  or  t'other  hendiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin'. 
It  aint  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudunt  course  is  steadied; 
I  scent  which  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

Go  into  it  bald-headed. 

[208] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


I  du  believe  thet  holdin'  slaves 

Comes  nat'ral  tu  a  Presidunt, 
Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 

To  hev  a  well-broke  precedunt; 
Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  couldn't  ax  with  no  face, 
Without  I'd  ben,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

Th'  unrizzest  kind  o'  doughface. 

I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

'111  keep  the  people  in  blindness, 
Thet  we  the  Mexicuns  can  thrash 

Right  inter  brotherly  kindness; 
Thet  bomb-shells,  grape,  an'  powder,  'n'  ball 

Air  good-will's  strongest  magnets; 
Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all, 

Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  hev  a  solid  vally; 
This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben, 

In  pasture  sweet  heth  led  me, 
An'  this'll  keep  the  people  green, 

To  feed  ez  they  hev  fed  me. 

'James  Russell  Lowell- 


[209] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


REVELRY  IN  INDIA 

WE  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 
And  the  walls  around  are  bare; 
As  they  echo  the  peals  of  laughter, 
It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there; 
But  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

We  drink  to  our  comrades'  eyes. 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already, 
And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 


Not  here  are  the  goblets  flowing, 

Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet; 
'T  is  cold,  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 

And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 
But  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise. 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next    hat  dies! 


Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink; 
We'll  fall,  'midst  the  wine-cup's  sparkles, 

As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 
So  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

'Tis  in  this  that  our  respite  lies. 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 
[210] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Time  was  when  we  frowned  at  others; 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then; 
Ha,  ha!  let  those  think  of  their  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 
No!  stand  to  your  glasses  steady; 

The  thoughtless  are  here  the  wise 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

There's  many  a  hand  that's  shaking, 

There's  many  a  cheek  that's  sunk; 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 

They'll  burn  with  the  wine  we've  drunk. 
So  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

'Tis  here  the  revival  lies. 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

There's  a  mist  on  the  glass  congealing, 

'Tis  the  hurricane's  fiery  breath; 
And  thus  does  the  warmth  of  feeling 

Turn  ice  in  the  grasp  of  death. 
Ho!  stand  to  your  glasses  steady; 

For  a  moment  the  vapour  flies. 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 

Of  the  soul  shall  sing  no  more  ? 
[211] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Ho!  stand  to  your  glasses  steady; 

This  world  is  a  world  of  lies. 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betrayed  by  the  land  we  find, 
Where  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 

And  the  dullest  remain   behind — 
Stand,  stand  to  your  glasses  steady! 

'Tis  all  we  have  left  to  prize. 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

Bartholomew  Dowling. 

A  FRAGMENT 

HOW  hardly  doth  the  cold  and  careless  world 
Requite  the  toil  divine  of  genius-souls, 
Their  wasting  cares  and  agonizing  throes! 
I  had  a  friend,  a  sweet  and  precious  friend, 
One  passing  rich  in  all  the  strange  and  rare, 
And  fearful  gifts  of  song. 

On  one  great  work, 
A  poem  in  twelve  cantos,  she  had  toiled 
From  early  girlhood,  e'en  till  she  became 
An  olden  maid. 

Worn  with  intensest  thought, 
She  sunk  at  last — just  at  the  "finis"  sunk! — 
And  closed  her  eyes  for  ever!     The  soul-gem 
Had  fretted  through  its  casket! 

As  I  stood 
[212] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Beside  her  tomb,  I  made  a  solemn  vow 

To  take  in  charge  that  poor,  lone  orphan  work, 

And  edit  it! 

My  publisher  I  sought, 

A  learned  man  and  good.     He  took  the  work, 
Read  here  and  there  a  line,  then  laid  it  down, 
And  said,  "It  would  not  pay."     I  slowly  turned, 
And  went  my  way  with  troubled  brow,  "but  more 
In  sorrow  than  in  anger." 

Grace  Greenwood, 


M1 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR 

ISS  Flora  McFlimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
Has   made  three   separate    journeys  to 

Paris  ; 
And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  was  there, 

That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 
(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  history, 
But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery) 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks  without  stopping, 
In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping; 
Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together, 
At  all  hours  of  the  day  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather; 
For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 
On  the  crown  of  her  head  or  the  sole  of  her  foot, 
Or  wrap  round   her   shoulders,  or   fit   round   her 

waist, 

Or  that  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  on,  or  laced, 
Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow, 
In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below; 

[  213  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls; 
Dresses  for  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  balls; 
Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in, 
Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in; 
Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all; 
Dresses  for  winter,  spring,  summer,  and  fall — 
All  of  them  different  in  colour  and  pattern, 
Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  crape,  velvet,  and  satin, 
Brocade,  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material 
Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal: 
In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 
Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of, 

From  ten-thousand-francs  robes  to  twenty-sous 

frills; 

In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store, 
While  McFlimsey  in  vain   stormed,  scolded,  and 
swore, 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills. 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer 

Argo, 
Formed,    McFlimsey    declares,   the    bulk    of   her 

cargo, 

Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the  rest, 
Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest-sized  chest, 
Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest, 
But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 
Such  particular  interest  that  they  invested 
Their  own  proper  persons  in  layers  and  rows 
Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  underclothes, 
Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and  such  trifles  as 

those; 

[214] 


A    S  a  tire   Anthology 


Then,  wrapped   in  great  shawls,   like   Circassian 

beauties, 

Gave  good-by  to  the  ship,  and  go-by  to  the  duties. 
Her  relations  at  home  all  marvelled,  no  doubt, 
Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 

For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride; 
But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turned  inside  out, 
And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the  dry-goods 

beside, 

Which,  in  spite  of  collector  and  custom-house  sentry, 
Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 
And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  passed 

since  the  day 

This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broad- 
way, 

This  same  Miss  McFlimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
The  last  time  we  met,  was  in  utter  despair, 
Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  wear! 

NOTHING  TO  WEAR!    Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert — this  you  know  is  between  us — 

That  she's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity, 

Like  Powers's  Greek  Slave,  or  the  Medici  Venus, 

But  I  do  mean  to  say  I  have  heard  her  declare, 
When  at  the  same  moment  she  had  on  a  dress 
Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent 

less, 
And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  I  should  guess, 

That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to 
wear! 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of  Miss  Flora's 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 

[215] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throw  all 
The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal 
On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections, 
Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she  called  her  "affec- 
tions," 
And  that  rather  decayed  but  well-known  work  of 

art, 

Which  Miss  Flora  persisted  in  styling  "her  heart." 

So  we  were  engaged.     Our  troth  had  been  plighted 

Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeam,  by  fountain  or 

grove, 
But  in  a  front  parlour,  most  brilliantly  lighted, 

Beneath  the  gas-fixtures  we  whispered  our  love — 
Without  any  romance,  or  raptures,  or  sighs, 
Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's  blue  eyes, 
Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly  actions; 
It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business  transactions, 
With  a  very  small  sprinkling  of  sentiment,  if  any, 
And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by  Tiffany. 
On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss, 
She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis, 
And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at  my  ease, 
"You  know,  I'm  to  polka  as  much  as  I  please, 
And  flirt  when  I  like — now  stop — don't  you  speak — 
And  you  must  not  come  here  more  than  twice  in  the 

week, 

Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball, 
But  a'ways  be  ready  to  come  when  I  call: 
So  don't  prose  to  me  about  duty  and  stuff— 
If  we  don't  break  this  off,  there  will  be  time  enough 
For  that  sort  of  thing;  but  the  bargain  must  be, 
That  as  long  as  I  choose  I  am  perfectly  free: 
[216] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


For  this  is  a  sort  of  engagement,  you  see, 

Which  is  binding  on  you,  but  not  binding  on  me." 

Well,   having  thus  wooed   Miss   McFlimsey,   and 

gained  her, 
With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  contained 

her, 

I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 
At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 
To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by  night; 
And   it   being  the   week   of  the   Stuckups'  grand 
ball— 

Their  cards  had  been  out  for  a  fortnight  or  so, 

And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tiptoe — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her — as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found 
When  the  time  intervening  between  the  first  sound 
Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 
Than  usual — I  found — I  won't  say  I  caught — her 
Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning 
To  see  if  perhaps  it  didn't  need  cleaning. 
She  turned  as  I  entered.     "Why,  Harry,  you  sinner, 
I  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers'  to  dinner!" 
"So  I  did,"  I  replied;  "but  the  dinner  is  swallowed, 

And  digested,  I  trust;  for  'tis  now  nine  or  more: 
So  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  followed 

Inclination,    which    led    me,   you    see,   to   your 

door. 

And  now  will  your  Ladyship  so  condescend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty  and  graces  and  presence  to  lend 
[2I7] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


(Al  of  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one  will  bor- 
row) 

To  the  Stuckups,  whose  party,  you  know,  is  to- 
morrow ? " 

The  fair  Flora  looked  up  with  a  pitiful  air, 

And  answered  quite  promptly,  "Why,  Harry,  man 
cber, 

I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with  you  there; 

But  really  and  truly,  I've  nothing  to  wear." 

"Nothing  to  wear?     Go  just  as  you  are: 
Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you'll  be  by  far, 
I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 
On  the   Stuckup  horizon."     I  stopped,  for  her 

eye, 

Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery, 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible  battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.  She  made  no  reply, 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose 

(That    pure   Grecian   feature),    as   much   as   to 

say, 

"How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes, 

No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  wears  every  day!" 
So  I  ventured  again,  "Wear  your  crimson  brocade." 
(Second  turn-up  of  nose).  "That's  too  dark  by  a 

shade." 
"Your  blue  silk."     "That's  too  heavy."     "Your 

pink —       "That's  too  light." 

"Wear  tulle  over  satin."     "I  can't  endure  white." 
"Your  rose-coloured,  then,  the  best  of  the  batch." 
"I  haven't  a  thread  of  point  lace  to  match." 
[218] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"Your    brown    moire-antique."     "Yes,    and    look 

like  a  Quaker." 
"The     pearl-coloured —        "I    would,      but    that 

plaguy  dressmaker 

Has  had  it  a  week."     "Then  that  exquisite  lilac, 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Shylock." 
(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation): 
"I  wouldn't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 
"Why  not?     It's  my  fancy,  there's  nothing  could 

strike  it 
As  more  comme  il  faut."     "Yes,  but,  dear  me, 

that  lean 
Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like    it, 

And  I  won't  appear  dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 
"Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  mazarine, 
That  superb  point  d' aiguille,  that  imperial  green, 
That  zephyr-like  tarlatan,  that  rich  grenadine — 

"Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen," 
Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 
"Then  wear,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which  quite 

crushed 
Opposition,    "that    gorgeous    toilette    which    you 

sported 

In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  presentation, 
When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of  the 

nation; 
And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much 

courted." 

The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously  tipped  up, 
And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  indignation, 
As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce  exclamation, 
"  I  have  worn  it  three  times  at  the  least  calculation, 
[2I9] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


And  that  and  most  of  my  dresses  are  ripped  up!" 
Here  I  ripped  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash — 
Quite  innocent,  though;  but,  to  use  an  expression 
More  striking  than  classic,  it  "settled  my  hash," 

And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of  our  session. 
"Fiddlesticks,  is  it,  sir?     I  wonder  the  ceiling 
Doesn't  fall  down  and  crush  you!     Oh,  you  men 

have  no  feeling. 

You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures, 
Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and  preachers, 
Your  silly   pretence — why,  what  a   mere  guess  it 

is! 

Pray,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  necessities  ? 
I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I've  nothing  to 

wear, 

And  it's  perfectly  plain  you  not  only  don't  care, 
But  you  do  not  believe  me"  (here  the  nose  went  still 

higher): 
"I  suppose,  if  you  dared,  you  would  call  me  a 

liar. 

Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir — yes,  on  the  spot; 
You're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and — I  don't  know 

what." 

I  mildly  suggested  the  words  Hottentot, 
Pickpocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and  thief, 
As  gentle  expletives  which  might  give  relief; 
But  this  only  proved  as  a  spark  to  the  powder, 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder; 
It  blew,  and  it  rained,  thundered,  lightened,  and 

hailed 
Interjections,  verbs,  pronouns,  till  language  quite 

failed 

[  22O  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears 
Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent  of  tears; 
And  my  last  faint,  despairing  attempt  at  an  obs- 
Ervation  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Sv 

Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my  hat,  too, 
Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  latter  a  tattoo, 
In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 
Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Wordsworth  would 

say; 

Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow, 
Found  myself  in  the  entry — I  hardly  knew  how — 
On   doorstep   and   sidewalk,    past   lamp-post   and 

square, 

At  home  and  up-stairs,  in  my  own  easy  chair; 
Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into  blaze, 
And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar: 
Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the  Czar 
Of  the  Russias  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of  his  days, 
On  the  whole,  do  you  think  he  would  have  much  to 

spare 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear  ? 

William  Allen  Butler. 

A  REVIEW 

THE  INN  ALBUM,  BY  ROBERT  BROWNING. 

WHAT'S  this,  a  book  ?     i6mo.  Osgood's  page, 
Fair,  clear,  Olympian-typed,  and  save  a 

scant 
O'  the  margin,  stiff  i'  the  hurried  binding,  good! 

[  221  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Intituled  how? — "The  Inn  Album,  Robert  Brown- 
ing, Author." 

Why  should  he  not  say,  as  well, 
The  Hotel  Register? — cis- Atlantic  term! 
Nay,  an  he  should,  the  action  might  purvey 
To  lower  comprehensions:  so  not  he! 
Reflect,  'tis  Browning!  he  neglects,  prepense, 
All  forms  of  form :  what  he  gives  must  we  take, 
Sweet,  bitter,  sour,  absinthean,  adipose, 
Conglomerate,  jellied,  potted,  salt,  or  dried, 
As  the  mood  holds  him;  ours  is  not  to  choose! 
Well  (here  huge  sighs  be  heard),  commending  us 
To  Heaven's  high  mercy,  let  us  read. 


Three  hours: 

The  end  is  reached;  but  who  begins  review, 
Forgetful  o'  beginning,  with  the  end  ? 
Turn  back! — why,  here's  a  line  supplies  us  with 
Curt  comment  on  the  whole,  though  travesty — 
"Hail,  calm  obliquity,  lugubrious  plot!  .   .   ." 
Yea,  since  obliquity  the  straight  path  is, 
And  Passion  worships  as  her  patron  saint 
The  Holy  Vitus,  and  from  Language  fall 
The  rusty  chains  of  rhythm  and  harmony, 
Why  not  exclaim,  "Hail,  sham  obliquity!" 
"Too  hard,"  you  murmur,  sweet,  submissive  minds  ? 
But  take  a  bite  o'  the  original  pie!     Set  teeth, 
'Ware  cherry-stones,  and  if  a  herring-spine 
Stick  crosswise  i'  the  throat,  go  gulp,  shed  tears, 
But  blame  us  not!     So  runs  the  opening: 

[  222  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


This  bard's  a  Browning!  there's  no  doubt  of  that; 

But,  ah,  ye  gods,  the  sense!     Are  we  so  sure 

If  sense  be  sense  unto  our  common-sense, 

Low  sense  to  higher,  high  to  low,  no  sense 

All  sense  to  those,  all  sense  no  sense  to  these  ? 

That's  where  your  poet  tells!  and  you've  no  right 

(Insensate  sense  with  sensuous  thought  being  mixed) 

To  ask  analysis !     How  can  else  review, 

Save  in  the  dialect  of  his  verse,  be  writ  ? 

So  write  we:     (would  we  might  foresee  the  end!) 

So    has    he    taught    us,    i'    "The    Ring    and    the 

Book," 

De  gustibus,  concerning  taste,  non  est 
There's  no — disputing,  disputandum  (Ha! 
'Tis  not  so  difficult) — and  we  submit. 


This  Album-book — 

"Hail,  sham  obliquity,  lugubrious  plot!" — 
Is  well-nigh  read;  you  end  the  tangle,  smash! 
Here's  Browning's  recipe:  take  heaps  o'  hate, 
Take  boundless  love,  hydraulic-pressed,  in  bales, 
Distilments  keen  of  baseness  and  of  pride, 
And  innocence  and  cunning;  mix  'em  well, 
And  put  a  body  round  'em!     Add  the  more 
O'  this,  or  that,  you  have  another — stay! 
The  sex  don't  count;  make  female  of  the  male, 
Male  female,  all  the  better;  let  them  meet, 
Talk,  love,  hate,  cross,  till  satisfied;  then,  kill! 
So  here:  lord,  finding  situation  tough 
(Between  two  fires,  hate  and  a  horsewhip-threat), 
Writes  i'  the  Album,  goes  without  and  waits. 

L223] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Superb  One,  having  read,  takes  hand  of  snob, 
Accepts  his  love  till  death;  then  lord  comes  back. 
What  did  he  write?     "Refinement  every  inch, 
From  brow  to  boot-end  "  —'twas  a  threat  to  tell 
The  country  curate  of  his  wife's  disgrace — 
He,  the  disgracer!     Snob  gets  wild  at  that, 
Screams,  jumps,  and  clutches     .     .     . 

All  at  once  we  see 

One  character  dead,  but  how,  we  don't  quite  know. 
Then  she,  Superb  One,  writes  in  Album,  dies 
By  force  of  will  (no  hint  of  instrument!), 
Leaving  the  snob  alone  and  much  surprised. 
Cousin  is  heard  without;  but  ere  the  door 
Opens,  the  story  closes.     Only  this  remains, 
The  last  conundrum,  hardly  guessable 
By  the  unbrowninged  mind.     Since  what  it  means, 
If  aught  the  meaning,  means  some  other  thing, 
And  that  thing  something  else,  but  this  not  that, 
Nor  that  the  other;  we  adopt  the  lines 
As  most  expressing  what  we  fail  express, 
Our  solemn  verdict,  handkerchief  and  all, 
Upon  the  book. 

The  meaning,  ask  you,  O  ingenuous  soul  ? 
Why,  were  there  such  for  you,  what  then  were  left 
To  puzzle  brain  with,  pump  conjecture  dry, 
And  prove  you  little  where  the  poet's  great  ? 
Great  must  he  be,  you  therefore  little.     Go! 
The  curtain  falls,  the  candles  are  snuffed  out: 
End,   damned  obliquity,  lugubrious  plot! 

Bayard  Taylor. 
[224] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


THE  POSITIVISTS 

LIFE  and  the  Universe  show  spontaneity: 
Down  with  ridiculous  notions  of  Deity! 

Churches  and  creeds   are  all  lost  in   the 
mists; 
Truth  must  be  sought  with  the  Positivists. 

Wise  are  their  teachers  beyond  all  comparison, 
Comte,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  Mill,  Morley,  and  Harri- 
son. 

Who  will  adventure  to  enter  the  lists 
With  such  a  squadron  of  Positivists? 

Social  arrangements  are  awful  miscarriages; 
Cause  of  all  crime  is  our  system  of  marriages. 

Poets  with  sonnets,  and  lovers  with  trysts, 

Kindle  the  ire  of  the  Positivists. 


Husbands  and  wives  should  be  all  one  community, 
Exquisite  freedom  with  absolute  unity. 

Wedding-rings  worse  are  than  manacled  wrists — 

Such  is  the  creed  of  the  Positivists. 


There  was  an  ape  in  the  days  that  were  earlier; 

Centuries  passed,  and  his  hair  became  curlier; 
Centuries  more  gave  a  thumb  to  his  wrist — 
Then  he  was  Man,  and  a  Positivist. 

[225  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


If  you  are  pious  (mild  form  of  insanity), 

Bow  down  and  worship  the  mass  of  humanity. 

Other  religions  are  buried  in  mists; 

We're  our  own  Gods,  say  the  Positivists. 

Mortimer  Collins. 


J 


SKY-MAKING 

TO  PROFESSOR  TYNDALL 

UST  take  a  trifling  handful,  O  philosopher, 
Of  magic  matter,  give  it  a  slight  toss  over 

The  ambient  ether,  and  I  don't  see  why 
You  shouldn't  make  a  sky. 


0  hours  Utopian  which  we  may  anticipate! 
Thick  London  fog  how  easy  'tis  to  dissipate, 

And  make  the  most  pea-soupy  day  as  clear 
As  Bass's  brightest  beer! 

Poet-professor!  now  my  brain  thou  kindlest; 

1  am  become  a  most  determined  Tyndallist. 

If  it  is  known  a  fellow  can  make  skies, 
Why  not  make  bright  blue  eyes  ? 

This  to  deny,  the  folly  of  a  dunce  it  is; 
Surely  a  girl  as  easy  as  a  sunset  is. 
If  you  can  make  a  halo  or  eclipse, 
Why  not  two  laughing  lips  ? 
[  226] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  creed  of  Archimedes,  erst  of  Sicily, 
And  of  D'Israeli     .      .      .     forti  nil  difficile, 
Is  likewise  mine.     Pygmalion  was  a  fool 
Who  should  have  gone  to  school. 

Why  should  an  author  scribble  rhymes  or  articles  ? 
Bring  me  a  dozen  tiny  Tyndall  particles; 
Therefrom  I'll  coin  a  dinner,  Nash's  wine, 
And  a  nice  girl  to  dine. 

Mortimer  Collins. 


MY  LORD  TOMNODDY 

MY  Lord  Tomnoddy's  the  son  of  an  earl; 
His  hair  is  straight,  but  his  whiskers  curl; 
His  lordship's  forehead  is  far  from  wide, 
But  there's  plenty  of  room  for  the  brains  inside. 
He  writes  his  name  with  indifferent  ease; 
He's  rather  uncertain  about  the  "d's"; 
But  what  does  it  matter,  if  three  or  one, 
To  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son  ? 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  to  college  went; 
Much  time  he  lost,  much  money  he  spent; 
Rules,  and  windows,  and  heads,  he  broke; 
Authorities  wink'd — young  men  will  joke! 
He  never  peep'd  inside  of  a  book; 
In  two  years'  time  a  degree  he  took, 
And  the  newspapers  vaunted  the  honours  won 
By  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 
[227] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


My  Lord  Tomnoddy  came  out  in  the  world; 
Waists  were  tighten'd  and  ringlets  curl'd; 
Virgins  languish'd,  and  matrons  smil'd. 
'Tis  true,  his  lordship  is  rather  wild; 
In  very  queer  places  he  spends  his  life; 
There's  talk  of  some  children  by  nobody's  wife; 
But  we  mustn't  look  close  into  what  is  done 
By  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  must  settle  down — 
There's  a  vacant  seat  in  the  family  town ! 
('Tis  time  he  should  sow  his  eccentric  oats) — 
He  hasn't  the  wit  to  apply  for  votes: 
He  cannot  e'en  learn  his  election  speech; 
Three  phrases  he  speaks,  a  mistake  in  each, 
And  then  breaks  down;  but  the  borough  is  won 
For  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  prefers  the  Guards 

(The  House  is  a  bore),  so,  it's  on  the  cards! 

My  lord's  a  lieutenant  at  twenty-three; 

A  captain  at  twenty-six  is  he; 

He  never  drew  sword,  except  on  drill; 

The  tricks  of  parade  he  has  learnt  but  ill; 

A  full-blown  colonel  at  thirty-one 

Is  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son! 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  is  thirty-four; 
The  earl  can  last  but  a  few  years  more; 
My  Lord  in  the  Peers  will  take  his  place; 
Her  Majesty's  councils  his  words  will  grace. 

[228] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Office  he'll  hold,  and  patronage  sway; 
Fortunes  and  lives  he  will  vote  away. 
And  what  are  his  qualifications? — ONE! 
He's  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 

Robert  Barnabas  Brough. 


HIDING  THE  SKELETON 

AT  dinner  she  is  hostess,  I  am  host. 
Went    the    feast    ever    cheerfuller  ?     She 

keeps 

The  topic  over  intellectual  deeps 
In  buoyancy  afloat.     They  see  no  ghost. 
With  sparkling  surface-eyes  we  ply  the  ball: 
It  is  in  truth  a  most  contagious  game; 
HIDING  THE  SKELETON  shall  be  its  name. 
Such  play  as  this  the  devils  might  appal! 
But  here's  the  greater  wonder,  in  that  we, 
Enamour'd  of  our  acting  and  our  wits, 
Admire  each  other  like  true  hypocrites. 
Warm-lighted  glances,  Love's  ephemerae, 
Shoot  gayly  o'er  the  dishes  and  the  wine. 
We  waken  envy  of  our  happy  lot. 
Fast,  sweet,  and  golden  shows  our  marriage  knot. 
Dear  guests,  you  now  have  seen   Love's   corpse- 
light  shine! 

George  Meredith. 


[229  ] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


MIDGES 

SHE  is  talking  aesthetics,  the  dear,  clever  teacher! 
Upon  man,  and  his  functions,  she  speaks 

with  a  smile; 

Her  ideas  are  divine  upon  art,  upon  nature, 
The  sublime,  the  heroic,  and  Mr.  Carlyle. 

I  no  more  am  found  worthy  to  join  in  the  talk,  now, 
So  I  follow  with  my  surreptitious  cigar; 

While  she  leads  our  poetical  friend  up  the  walk,  now, 
Who  quotes  Wordsworth,  and  praises  her 
"Thoughts  on  a  Star." 

Meanwhile,  there  is  dancing  in  yonder  green  bower 
A  swarm  of  young  midges !     They  dance  high  and 
low; 

'Tis  a  sweet  little  species  that  lives  but  one  hour, 
And  the  eldest  was  born  half  an  hour  ago. 

One  impulsive  young  midge  I  hear  ardently  pouring 
In  the  ear  of  a  shy  little  wanton  in  gauze, 

His  eternal  devotion,  his  ceaseless  adoring, 

Which  shall  last  till  the  universe  breaks  from  its 
laws. 

His  passion  is  not,  he  declares,  the  mere  fever 
Of  a  rapturous  moment:  it  knows  no  control; 

It  will  burn  in  his  breast  through  existence  for  ever, 
Immutably  fixed  in  the  deeps  of  his  soul! 

[  230] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


She  wavers,  she  flutters:  male  midges  are  fickle; 
Dare  she  trust  him  her  future  ?  she  asks  with  a 

sigh. 

He  implores,  and  a  tear  is  beginning  to  trickle. 
She  is  weak:  they  embrace,  and  .   .   .  the  lovers 
pass  by. 

While  they  pass  me,  down  here  on  a  rose-leaf  has 
lighted 

A  pale  midge,  his  feelers  all  drooping  and  torn; 
His  existence  is  withered;  its  future  is  blighted; 

His  hopes  are  betrayed,  and  his  breast  is  forlorn. 

By  the  midge  his  heart  trusted  his  heart  is  deceived; 

now 

In  the  virtue  of  midges  no  more  he  believes; 
From  love  in  its  falsehood,  once  wildly  believed, 

now 
He  will  bury  his  desolate  life  in  the  leaves. 

His  friends  would  console  him — the  noblest  and 

sagest 

Of  midges  have  held  that  a  midge  lives  again; 
In  eternity,  say  they,  the  strife  thou  now  wagest 
With  sorrow,  shall  cease;  but  their  words  were  in 
vain! 

Can  eternity  bring  back  the  seconds  now  wasted 
In  hopeless  desire  ?  or  restore  to  his  breast 

The  belief  he  has  lost,  with  the  bliss  he  once  tasted, 
Embracing  the  midge  that  his  being  held  best? 


A    Satire   Anthology 


His  friends  would  console  him :  life  yet  is  before  him ; 

Many  hundred  long  seconds  he  still  has  to  live; 
In  the  State  yet  a  mighty  career  spreads  before  him; 

Let  him  seek  in  the  great  world  of  action  to 
strive! 

There's  Fame!  there's  Ambition!  and,  grander  than 

either, 
There  is  Freedom!  the  progress  and  march  of  the 

race! 
But  to  Freedom  his  breast  beats  no  longer,  and 

neither 
Ambition  nor  action  her  loss  can  replace. 

If  the  time  had  been  spent  in  acquiring  aesthetics 
I  have  squandered  in  learning  this  language  of 
midges, 

There  might,  for  my  friend  in  her  peripatetics, 
Have  been  now  two  asses  to  help  o'er  the  bridges. 

As  it  is,  I'll  report  her  the  whole  conversation. 

It  would  have  been  longer,  but,  somehow  or  other 
(In  the  midst  of  that  misanthrope's  long  lamenta- 
tion), 

A  midge  in  my  right  eye  became  a  young  mother. 

Since  my  friend  is  so  clever,  I'll  ask  her  to  tell  me 
Why  the  least  living  thing  (a  mere  midge  in  the 

egg) 
Can  make  a  man's  tears  flow,  as  now  it  befell  me. 

Oh,  you  dear,  clever  woman,  explain  it,  I  beg! 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytton. 

[  232] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER   ABROAD   WITH 
HIS   SON 

OWHAT  harper  could  worthily  harp  it, 
Mine  Edward!  this  wide-stretching  wold 
(Look  out  wold)  with  its  wonderful  carpet 
Of  emerald,  purple,  and  gold! 
Look  well  at  it — also  look  sharp,  it 
Is  getting  so  cold. 

The  purple  is  heather  (erica); 

The  yellow,  gorse — call'd  sometimes  "whin." 
Cruel  boys  on  its  prickles  might  spike  a 

Green  beetle  as  if  on  a  pin. 
You  may  roll  in  it,  if  you  would  like  a 

Few  holes  in  your  skin. 

You  wouldn't  ?     Then  think  of  how  kind  you 

Should  be  to  the  insects  who  crave 
Your  compassion — and  then,  look  behind  you 

At  yon  barley-ears!     Don't  they  look  brave 
As  they  undulate  (undulate,  mind  you, 

From  unda,  a  wave). 

The  noise  of  those  sheep-bells,  how  faint  it 
Sounds  here  (on  account  of  our  height)! 

And  this  hillock  itself — who  could  paint  it, 
With  its  changes  of  shadow  and  light  ? 

Is  it  not — (never,  Eddy,  say  "Ain't  it") — 
A  marvellous  sight  ? 

[233  ] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Then  yon  desolate,  eerie  morasses, 

The  haunts  of  the  snipe  and  the  hern- 

(I  shall  question  the  two  upper  classes 
On  aquatiles,  when  we  return) — 

Why,  I  see  on  them  absolute  masses 
Of  filix  or  fern. 


How  it  interests  e'en  a  beginner 

(Or  tyro)  like  dear  little  Ned! 
Is  he  listening?     As  I  am  a  sinner, 

He's  asleep — he  is  wagging  his  head. 
Wake  up!     I'll  go  home  to  my  dinner, 

And  you  to  your  bed. 

The  boundless,  ineffable  prairie; 

The  splendour  of  mountain  and  lake, 
With  their  hues  that  seem  ever  to  vary; 

The  mighty  pine-forests  which  shake 
In  the  wind,  and  in  which  the  unwary 

May  tread  on  a  snake; 

And  this  wold  with  its  heathery  garment 

Are  themes  undeniably  great. 
But — although  there  is  not  any  harm  in't — 

It's  perhaps  little  good  to  dilate 
On  their  charms  to  a  dull  little  varmint 

Of  seven  or  eight. 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley. 


[234] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


OF  PROPRIETY 

STUDY  first   Propriety,  for  she  is  indeed  the 
pole-star 

Which  shall  guide  the  artless  maiden  through 
the  mazes  of  Vanity  Fair; 

Nay,  she  is  the  golden  chain  which  holdeth  to- 
gether Society, 

The  lamp  by  whose  light  young  Psyche  shall  ap- 
proach unblamed  her  Eros. 

Verily,  Truth  is  as  Eve,  which  was  ashamed,  being 
naked; 

Wherefore  doth  Propriety  dress  her  with  the  fair 
foliage  of  artifice; 

And  when  she  is  drest,  behold,  she  knoweth  not 
herself  again! 

I  walked  in  the  forest,  and  above  me  stood  the 
yew — 

Stood  like  a  slumbering  giant,  shrouded  in  impene- 
trable shade; 

Then  I  pass'd  into  the  citizen's  garden,  and  marked 
a  tree  clipt  into  shape 

(The  giant's  locks  had  been  shorn  by  the  Delilah- 
shears  of  Decorum), 

And  I  said,  "Surely  Nature  is  goodly;  but  how 
much  goodlier  is  Art!" 

I  heard  the  wild  notes  of  the  lark  floating  far  over 
the  blue  sky, 

And  my  foolish  heart  went  after  him,  and,  lo!  I 
blessed  him  as  he  rose. 

[  235  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Foolish!  for  far  better  is  the  trained  boudoir  bull- 
finch, 

Which  pipeth  the  semblance  of  a  tune,  and  mechani- 
cally draweth  up  the  water; 

And  the  reinless  steed  of  the  desert,  though  his  neck 
be  clothed  with  thunder, 

Must  yield  to  him  that  danceth  and  "moveth  in  the 
circles"  at  Astley's. 

For  verily,  O  my  daughter,  the  world  is  a  masquer- 
ade, 

And  God  made  thee  one  thing,  that  thou  mightest 
make  thyself  another. 

A  maiden's  heart  is  as  champagne,  ever  aspiring 
and  struggling  upward, 

And  it  needed  that  its  motions  be  checked  by  the 
silvered  cork  of  Propriety; 

He  that  can  afford  the  price,  his  be  the  precious 
treasure; 

Let  him  drink  deeply  of  its  sweetness,  nor  grumble 
if  it  tasteth  of  the  cork. 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley. 


PEACE:  A  Study 

HE  stood,  a  worn-out  City  clerk — 
Who'd  toil'd,  and  seen  no  holiday, 
For  forty  years  from  dawn  to  dark — 
Alone  beside  Caermarthen  Bay. 

He  felt  the  salt  spray  on  his  lips; 

Heard  children's  voices  on  the  sands; 

[236] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Up  the  sun's  path  he  saw  the  ships 
Sail  on  and  on  to  other  lands; 


And  laugh'd  aloud.     Each  sight  and  sound 
To  him  was  joy  too  deep  for  tears; 

He  sat  him  on  the  beach,  and  bound 
A  blue  bandana  round  his  ears; 


And  thought  how,  posted  near  his  door, 
His  own  green  door  on  Camden  Hill, 

Two  bands  at  least,  most  likely  more, 
Were  mingling  at  their  own  sweet  will 


Verdi  with  Vance.     And  at  the  thought 
He  laugh'd  again,  and  softly  drew 

That  Morning  Herald  that  he'd   bought 
Forth  from  his  breast,  and  read  it  through. 

Charles  Stuart  Calverlev. 


ALL-SAINTS 

IN  a  church  which  is  furnish'd  with  mullion  and 
gable, 
With  altar  and  reredos,  with  gargoyle  and 

groin, 

The  penitents'  dresses  are  sealskin  and  sable, 
The  odour  of  sanctity's  eau-de-Cologne. 

L237] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  only  could  Lucifer,  flying  from  Hades, 

Gaze  down  on  this  crowd  with  its  panniers  and 

paints, 
He  would  say,  as  he  look'd  at  the  lords  and  the 

ladies, 

"Oh,  where  is  All-Sinners',  if  this  is  All-Saints'  ?" 

Edmund  Tates. 


FAME'S  PENNY  TRUMPET 

Affectionately  dedicated  to  all   ''original  researchers"  who  pant  for 
"endowment." 

BLOW,  blow  your  trumpets  till  they  crack, 
Ye  little  men  of  little  souls! 
And  bid  them  huddle  at  your  back, 
Gold-sucking  leeches,  shoals  on  shoals! 

Fill  all  the  air  with  hungry  wails — 

"Reward  us,  ere  we  think  or  write! 

Without  your  gold  mere  knowledge  fails 
To  sate  the  swinish  appetite!" 

And,  where  great  Plato  paced  serene, 
Or  Newton  paused  with  wistful  eye, 

Rush  to  the  chase  with  hoofs  unclean, 
And  Babel-clamour  of  the  sky! 

Be  yours  the  pay,  be  theirs  the  praise; 

We  will  not  rob  them  of  their  due, 
Nor  vex  the  ghosts  of  other  days 

By  naming  them  along  with  you. 

[238] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


They  sought  and  found  undying  fame; 

They  toiled  not  for  reward  nor  thanks; 
Their  cheeks  are  hot  with  honest  shame 

For  you,  the  modern  mountebanks, 

Who  preach  of  justice,  plead  with  tears 
That  love  and  mercy  should  abound, 

While  marking  with  complacent  ears 

The  moaning  of  some  tortured  hound; 

Who  prate  of  wisdom — nay,  forbear, 
Lest  Wisdom  turn  on  you  in  wrath, 

Trampling,  with  heel  that  will  not  spare, 
The  vermin  that  beset  her  path! 

Go,  throng  each  other's  drawing-rooms, 

Ye  idols  of  a  petty  clique; 
Strut  your  brief  hour  in  borrowed  plumes, 

And  make  your  penny  trumpets  squeak; 

Deck  your  dull  talk  with  pilfered  shreds 
Of  learning  from  a  nobler  time, 

And  oil  each  other's  little  heads 

With  mutual  flattery's  golden  slime; 

And  when  the  topmost  height  ye  gain, 
And  stand  in  glory's  ether  clear, 

And  grasp  the  prize  of  all  your  pain — 
So  many  hundred  pounds  a  year — 

[  239  ] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Then  let  Fame's  banner  be  unfurled! 

Sing  paeans  for  a  victory  won ! 
Ye  tapers,  that  would  light  the  world, 

And  cast  a  shadow  on  the  Sun; 

Who  still  shall  pour  his  rays  sublime, 
One  crystal  flood,  from  east  to  west, 

When  ye  have  burned  your  little  time, 
And  feebly  flickered  into  rest? 

Lewis  Carroll. 

THE  DIAMOND  WEDDING 

OLOVE !  Love !  Love !     What  times  were  those, 
Long  ere  the  age  of  belles  and  beaux, 
And  Brussels  lace  and  silken  hose, 
When,  in  the  green  Arcadian  close, 
You  married  Psyche  under  the  rose, 

With  only  the  grass  for  bedding! 
Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand, 
You  followed  Nature's  sweet  command, 
Roaming  lovingly  through  the  land, 
Nor  sighed  for  a  Diamond  Wedding. 

So  have  we  read,  in  classic  Ovid, 
How  Hero  watched  for  her  beloved, 

Impassioned  youth,  Leander. 
She  was  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
And  wrapt  him  round  with  her  golden  hair, 
Whenever  he  landed  cold  and  bare, 
With  nothing  to  eat  and  nothing  to  wear, 

And  wetter  than  any  gander; 
[240] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


For  Love  was  Love,  and  better  than  money; 
The  slyer  the  theft,  the  sweeter  the  honey; 
And  kissing  was  clover,  all  the  world  over, 
Wherever  Cupid  might  wander. 

So  thousands  of  years  have  come  and  gone, 
And  still  the  moon  is  shining  on, 

Still  Hymen's  torch  is  lighted; 
And  hitherto,  in  this  land  of  the  West, 
Most  couples  in  love  have  thought  it  best 

To  follow  the  ancient  way  of  the  rest, 

And  quietly  get  united. 

But  now,  True  Love,  you're  growing  old — 
Bought  and  sold,  with  silver  and  gold, 
Like  a  house,  or  a  horse  and  carriage! 
Midnight  talks, 
Moonlight  walks, 

The  glance  of  the  eye  and  sweetheart  sigh, 
The  shadowy  haunts,  with  no  one  by, 
I  do  not  wish  to  disparage, 
But  every  kiss 
Has  a  price  for  its  bliss, 
In  the  modern  code  of  marriage; 
And  the  compact  sweet 
Is  not  complete 
Till  the  high  contracting  parties  meet 

Before  the  altar  of  Mammon; 
And  the  bride  must  be  led  to  a  silver  bower, 
Where  pearls  and  rubies  fall  in  a  shower 
That  would  frighten  Jupiter  Ammon! 

[241] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


I  need  not  tell 
How  it  befell, 

(Since  Jenkins  has  told  the  story 
Over  and  over  and  over  again, 
In  a  style  I  cannot  hope  to  attain, 

And  covered  himself  with  glory!) 
How  it  befell,  one  summer's  day, 
The  king  of  the  Cubans  strolled  this  way — 
King  January's  his  name,  they  say — 
And  fell  in  love  with  the  Princess  May, 

The  reigning  belle  of  Manhattan; 
Nor  how  he  began  to  smirk  and  sue, 
And  dress  as  lovers  who  come  to  woo, 
Or  as  Max  Maretzek  and  Jullien  do, 
When  they  sit  full-bloomed  in  the  ladies'  view, 

And  flourish  the  wondrous  baton. 


He  wasn't  one  of  your  Polish  nobles, 

Whose  presence  their  country  somehow  troubles, 

And  so  our  cities  receive  them; 
Nor  one  of  your  make-believe  Spanish  grandees, 
Who  ply  our  daughters  with  lies  and  candies, 

Until  the  poor  girls  believe  them. 
No,  he  was  no  such  charlatan — 
Count  de  Hoboken  Flash-in-the-pan, 

Full  of  gasconade  and  bravado — 
But  a  regular,  rich  Don  Rataplan 

Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 

Seiior  Grandissimo  Bastinado. 
His  was  the  rental  of  half  Havana, 
And  all  Matanzas;  and  Santa  Anna, 
[242] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Rich  as  he  was,  could  hardly  hold 

A  candle  to  light  the  mines  of  gold 

Our  Cuban  owned,  choke-full  of  diggers; 

And  broad  plantations,  that,  in  round  figures, 

Were  stocked  with  at  least  five  thousand  niggers! 

"Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may!" 

The  senor  swore  to  carry  the  day, 

To  capture  the  beautiful  Princess  May, 

With  his  battery  of  treasure; 
Velvet  and  lace  she  should  not  lack; 
Tiffany,  Haughwout,  Ball  &  Black, 
Genin  and  Stewart  his  suit  should  back, 

And  come  and  go  at  her  pleasure; 
Jet  and  lava,  silver  and  gold, 
Garnets,  emeralds  rare  to  behold, 
Diamonds,  sapphires,  wealth  untold, 
All  were  hers,  to  have  and  to  hold — 

Enough  to  fill  a  peck  measure! 

He  didn't  bring  all  his  forces  on 
At  once,  but,  like  a  crafty  old  Don, 
Who  many  a  heart  had  fought  and  won, 

Kept  bidding  a  little  higher; 
And  every  time  he  made  his  bid, 
And  what  she  said,  and  all  they  did, 

'Twas  written  down 

For  the  good  of  the  town, 
By  Jeems,  of  The  Daily  Flyer. 

A  coach  and  horses,  you'd  think,  would  buy 
For  the  Don  an  easy  victory; 
But  slowly  our  Princess  yielded. 

[  243  ] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


A  diamond  necklace  caught  her  eye, 
But  a  wreath  of  pearls  first  made  her  sigh. 
She  knew  the  worth  of  each  maiden  glance, 
And,  like  young  colts  that  curvet  and  prance, 
She  led  the  Don  a  deuce  of  a  dance, 

In  spite  of  the  wealth  he  wielded. 
She  stood  such  a  fire  of  silks  and  laces, 
Jewels  and  gold  dressing-cases, 
And  ruby  brooches,  and  jets  and  pearls, 
That  every  one  of  her  dainty  curls 
Brought  the  price  of  a  hundred  common  girls; 

Folks  thought  the  lass  demented! 
But  at  last  a  wonderful  diamond  ring, 
An  infant  Kohinoor,  did  the  thing, 
And,  sighing  with  love,  or  something  the  same, 
(What's  in  a  name  r) 

The  Princess  May  consented. 

Ring!  ring  the  bells,  and  bring 
The  people  to  see  the  marrying! 
Let  the  gaunt  and  hungry  and  ragged  poor 
Throng  round  the  great  cathedral  door, 
To  wonder  what  all  the  hubbub's  for, 

And  sometimes  stupidly  wonder 
At  so  much  sunshine  and  brightness  which 
Fall  from  the  church  upon  the  rich, 
While  the  poor  get  all  the  thunder. 

Ring,  ring,  merry  bells,  ring! 

O  fortunate  few, 

With  letters  blue, 
Good  for  a  seat  and  a  nearer  view! 

[244] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Fortunate  few,  whom  I  dare  not  name; 
Dilettanti!    Creme  de  la  creme! 
We  commoners  stood  by  the  street  facade, 
And  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cavalcade. 
We  saw  the  bride 
In  diamond  pride 

With  jewelled  maidens  to  guard  her  side — 
Six  lustrous  maidens  in  tarlatan. 
She  led  the  van  of  the  caravan; 

Close  behind  her,  her  mother 
(Dressed  in  gorgeous  moire  antique 
That  told  as  plainly  as  words  could  speak, 

She  was  more  antique  than  the  other) 

Leaned  on  the  arm  of  Don  Rataplan 
Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 
Senor  Grandissimo  Bastinado. 

Happy  mortal!  fortunate  man! 
And  Marquis  of  El  Dorado! 

In  they  swept,  all  riches  and  grace, 

Silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  lace; 

In  they  swept  from  the  dazzled  sun, 

And  soon  in  the  church  the  deed  was  done. 

Three  prelates  stood  on  the  chancel  high: 

A  knot  that  gold  and  silver  can  buy, 

Gold  and  silver  may  yet  untie, 

Unless  it  is  tightly  fastened; 
What's  worth  doing  at  all's  worth  doing  well, 
And  the  sale  of  a  young  Manhattan  belle 

Is  not  to  be  pushed  or  hastened; 
So  two  Very  Reverends  graced  the  scene, 
And  the  tall  Archbishop  stood  between, 

By  prayer  and  fasting  chastened. 

[245] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  Pope  himself  would  have  come  from  Rome, 

But  Garibaldi  kept  him  at  home. 

Haply  these  robed  prelates  thought 

Their  wo  ds  were  the  power  that  tied  the  knot; 

But  another  power  that  love-knot  tied, 

And    I    saw   the    chain    round    the    neck    of   the 

bride — 

A  glistening,  priceless,  marvellous  chain, 
Coiled  with  diamonds  again  and  again, 

As  befits  a  diamond  wedding; 

Yet  still  'twas  a  chain,  and  I  thought  she  knew  it, 
And  half-way  longed  for  the  will  to  undo  it, 

By  the  secret  tears  she  was  shedding. 

But  isn't  it  odd  to  think,  whenever 
We  all  go  through  that  terrible  River, 
Whose  sluggish  tide  alone  can  sever 
(The  Archbishop  says)  the  Church  decree, 
By  floating  one  in  to  Eternity, 
And  leaving  the  other  alive  as  ever, 
As  each  wades  through  that  ghastly  stream, 
The  satins  that  rustle  and  gems  that  gleam, 
Will  grow  pale  and  heavy,  and  sink  away 
To  the  noisome  river's  bottom-clay! 
Then  the  costly  bride  and  her  maidens  six 
Will  shiver  upon  the  bank  of  the  Styx, 
Quite  as  helpless  as  they  were  born — 
Naked  souls,  and  very  forlorn. 
The  Princess,  then,  must  shift  for  herself, 
And  lay  her  royalty  on  the  shelf; 
She,  and  the  beautiful  empress  yonder, 
Whose  robes  are  now  the  wide  world's  wonder 
[246] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


And  even  ourselves,  and  our  dear  little  wives, 

Who  calico  wear  each  morn  of  their  lives, 

And  the  sewing-girls,  and  les  cbiffonniers, 

In  rags  and  hunger — a  gaunt  array — 

And  all  the  grooms  of  the  caravan — 

Aye,  even  the  great  Don  Rataplan 

Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 

Senor  Grandissimo  Bastinado — 

That  gold-encrusted,  fortunate  man — 

All  will  land  in  naked  equality; 

The  lord  of  a  ribboned  principality 

Will  mourn  the  loss  of  his  cordon. 
Nothing  to  eat  and  nothing  to  wear 
Will  certainly  be  the  fashion  there! 
Ten  to  one,  and  I'll  go  it  alone, 
Those  most  used  to  a  rag  and  bone, 
Though  here  on  earth  they  labour  and  groan, 
Will  stand  it  best,  as  they  wade  abreast 

To  the  other  side  of  Jordan. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

TRUE  TO  POLL 

I'LL  sing  you  a  song,  not  very  long, 
But  the  story  somewhat  new 
Of  William  Kidd,  who,  whatever  he  did, 
To  his  Poll  was  always  true. 
He  sailed  away  in  a  galliant  ship 
From  the  port  of  old  Bris/o/, 

And  the  last  words  he  uttered, 
As  his  hankercher  he  fluttered, 
Were,  "My  heart  is  true  to  Poll." 

[247] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


His  heart  was  true  to  Poll, 

His  heart  was  true  to  Poll. 
It's  no  matter  what  you  do 
If  your  heart  be  only  true: 

And  his  heart  was  true  to  Poll. 

'Twas  a  wreck.     William,  on  shore  he  swam, 

And  looked  about  for  an  inn; 
When  a  noble  savage  lady,  of  a  colour  rather  shady, 

Came  up  with  a  kind  of  grin: 
"Oh,  marry  me,  and  a  king  you'll  be, 
And  in  a  palace  loll; 

Or  we'll  eat  you  willy-nilly." 
So  he  gave  his  hand,  did  Billy, 
But  his  heart  was  true  to  Poll. 

Away  a  twelvemonth  sped,  and  a  happy  life  he  led 

As  the  King  of  the  Kikeryboos; 
His  paint  was  red  and  yellar,  and  he  used  a  big 

umbrella, 

And  he  wore  a  pair  of  over-shoes; 
He'd  corals  and  knives,  and  twenty-six  wives, 
Whose  beauties  I  cannot  here  extol; 
One  day  they  all  revolted, 
So  he  back  to  Bristol  bolted, 
For  his  heart  was  true  to  Poll. 

His  heart  was  true  to  Poll, 

His  heart  was  true  to  Poll. 
It's  no  matter  what  you  do, 
If  your  heart  be  only  true: 

And  his  heart  was  true  to  Poll. 

Frank  C.  Burnand. 

[248] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


SLEEP  ON 

FEAR  no  unlicensed  entry, 
Heed  no  bombastic  talk, 
While  guards  the  British  sentry 
Pall  Mall  and  Birdcage  Walk. 
Let  European  thunders 

Occasion  no  alarms, 
Though  diplomatic  blunders 

May  cause  a  cry,  "To  arms!" 
Sleep  on,  ye  pale  civilians; 
All  thunder-clouds  defy; 
On  Europe's  countless  millions 
The  sentry  keeps  his  eye! 

Should  foreign-born  rapscallions 

In  London  dare  to  show 
Their  overgrown  battalions, 

Be  sure  I'll  let  you  know. 
Should  Russians  or  Norwegians 

Pollute  our  favoured  clime 
With  rough  barbaric  legions, 

I'll  mention  it  in  time. 
So  sleep  in  peace,  civilians, 

The  Continent  defy; 
While  on  its  countless  millions 

The  sentry  keeps  his  eye! 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 

[  249] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


TO  THE  TERRESTRIAL  GLOBE 

BY  A  MISERABLE  WRETCH 

ROLL  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on! 
Through  pathless  realms  of  space 

Roll  on! 

What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case? 
What  though  I  cannot  meet  my  bills  ? 
What  though  I  suffer  toothache's  ills  ? 
What  though   I   swallow  countless   pills? 
Never  you  mind ! 
Roll  on! 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on! 
Through  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on! 

It's  true  I've  got  no  shirts  to  wear; 
It's  true  my  butcher's  bill  is  due; 
It's  true  my  prospects  all  look  blue; 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you. 
Never  you  mind! 
Roll  on! 

(It  rolls  on.} 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 

THE  APE  AND  THE  LADY 

A  LADY  fair,  of  lineage  high, 
Was  loved  by  an  ape,  in  the  days  gone  by; 
The  maid  was  radiant  as  the  sun; 
The  ape  was  a  most  unsightly  one. 


A    Satire   Anthology 


So  it  would  not  do — 

His  scheme  fell  through; 
For  the  maid,  when  his  love  took  formal  shape, 

Expressed  such  terror 

At  his  monstrous  error, 

That  he  stammered  an  apology  and  made  his  'scape, 
The  picture  of  a  disconcerted  ape. 

With  a  view  to  rise  in  the  social  scale, 
He  shaved  his  bristles  and  he  docked  his  tail; 
He  grew  mustachios,  and  he  took  his  tub, 
And  he  paid  a  guinea  to  a  toilet  club. 

But  it  would  not  do — 

The  scheme  fell  through; 
For  the  maid  was  Beauty's  fairest  queen, 

With  golden  tresses, 

Like  a  real  princess's, 
While  the  ape,  despite  his  razor  keen, 
Was  the  apiest  ape  that  ever  was  seen! 

He  bought  white  ties,  and  he  bought  dress  suits; 
He  crammed  his  feet  into  bright,  tight  boots; 
And  to  start  his  life   on  a  brand-new  plan, 
He  christened  himself  Darwinian  man! 

But  it  would  not  do — 

The  scheme  fell  through; 
For  the  maiden  fair,  whom  the  monkey  craved, 

Was  a  radiant  being, 

With  a  brain  far-seeing; 
While  a  man,  however  well  behaved, 
At  best  is  only  a  monkey  shaved ! 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 

[251] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


ANGLICISED  UTOPIA 


has   quite   forsaken   all   her  wicked 
courses, 
Which  empties  our  police  courts,  and  abolishes 

divorces. 

(Divorce  is  nearly  obsolete  in  England.) 
No  tolerance  we  show  to   undeserving  rank  and 

splendour, 
For  the  higher  his  position  is,  the  greater  the  of- 

fender. 

(That's  a  maxim  that  is  prevalent  in  England.) 
No  peeress  at  our  drawing-room  before  the  Presence 

passes 
Who  wouldn't   be   accepted   by  the  lower-middle 

classes. 
Each  shady  dame,  whatever  be  her  rank,  is  bowed 

out  neatly; 
In  short,  this  happy  country  has  been  Anglicised 

completely! 
It  really  is  surprising 
What  a  thorough  Anglicising 
We've   brought    about  —  Utopia's   quite   another 

land; 

In  her  enterprising  movements, 
She  is  England,  with  improvements, 
Which  we  dutifully  offer  to  our  mother-land! 

Our  city  we  have  beautified  —  we've  done  it  willy- 

nilly—- 
And all  that  isn't  Belgrave  Square  is  Strand  and 

Piccadilly. 

[252] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


(They  haven't  any  slummeries  in  England.) 
We  have  solved  the  labour  question  with  discrimina- 
tion polished, 
So  poverty  is  obsolete,  and  hunger  is  abolished. 

(They  are  going  to  abolish  it  in  England.) 
The  Chamberlain  our  native  stage  has  purged,  be- 
yond a  question, 

Of  "risky  situation  and  indelicate  suggestion"; 
No  piece  is  tolerated  if  it's  costumed  indiscreetly — 
In  short,  this  happy  country  has  been  Anglicised 

completely! 
It  really  is  surprising 
What  a  thorough  Anglicising 
We've    brought   about — Utopia's    quite   another 

land; 

In  her  enterprising  movements, 
She  is  England,  with  improvements, 
Which  we  dutifully  offer  to  our  mother-land! 


Our  peerage  we've  remodelled  on  an  intellectual 
basis, 

Which  certainly  is  rough  on  our  hereditary  races. 
(They  are  going  to  remodel  it  in  England.) 

The  brewers  and  the  cotton  lords  no  longer  seek 
admission, 

And  literary  merit  meets  with  proper  recognition — 
(As  literary  merit  does  in  England!) 

Who  knows  but  we  may  count  among  our  intellec- 
tual chickens 

Like  them  an  Earl  of  Thackeray,  and  p'r'aps  a 
Duke  of  Dickens — 

[253] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Lord  Fildes  and  Viscount  Millais  (when  they  come) 

we'll  welcome  sweetly, 
And  then  this  happy  country  will  be  Anglicised 

completely! 
It  really  is  surprising 
What  a  thorough  Anglicising 
We've    brought    about — Utopia's   quite   another 

land; 

In  her  enterprising  movements, 
She  is  England,  with  improvements, 
Which  we  dutifully  offer  to  our  mother-land! 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 

ETIQUETTE 

THE  Ballyshannon  foundered  off  the   coast  of 
Cariboo, 

And  down  in  fathoms  many  went  the  captain 
and  the  crew; 
Down  went  the  owners — greedy  men  whom  hope 

of  gain  allured: 

Oh,  dry  the  starting  tear,  for  they  were  heavily 
insured. 

Besides  the  captain  and  the  mate,  the  owners  and 

the  crew, 
The  passengers  were  also  drowned  excepting  only 

two: 
Young   Peter  Gray,  who  tasted   teas   for   Baker, 

Croop,  and  Co., 
And  Somers,  who  from  Eastern  shores  imported 

indigo. 

[254] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


These  passengers,  by  reason  of  their  clinging  to  a 

mast, 

Upon  a  desert  island  were  eventually  cast. 
They  hunted  for  their  meals,  as  Alexander  Selkirk 

used, 
But   they   couldn't    chat   together — they  had    not 

been  introduced. 


For  Peter  Gray,  and  Somers,  too,  though  certainly 

in  trade, 
Were   properly  particular  about  the  friends  they 

made; 
And  somehow  thus  they  settled  it,  without  a  word 

of  mouth, 
That  Gray  should  take  the  northern  half,  while 

Somers  took  the  south. 


On  Peter's  portion  oysters  grew — a  delicacy  rare, 
But  oysters  were  a  delicacy  Peter  couldn't  bear. 
On  Somer's  side  was  turtle,  on  the  shingle  lying 

thick, 
Which    Somers    couldn't    eat,    because    it    always 

made  him  sick. 


Gray  gnashed  his  teeth  with  envy  as  he  saw  a  mighty 

store 

Of  turtle  unmolested  on  his  fellow-creature's  shore. 
The  oysters  at  his  feet  aside  impatiently  he  shoved, 
For  turtle  and  his  mother  were  the  only  things  he 

loved. 

[255] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


And  Somers  sighed  in  sorrow  as  he  settled  in  the 

south, 
For  the  thought  of  Peter's  oysters  brought  the  water 

to  his  mouth. 
He  longed  to  lay  him  down  upon  the  shelly  bed, 

and  stuff: 
He  had  often  eaten  oysters,  but   had   never  had 

enough. 

How  they  wished  an  introduction  to  each    other 

they  had  had 
When  on  board  the  Ballysbannon!     And  it  drove 

them  nearly  mad 
To  think  how  very  friendly  with  each  other  they 

might  get, 
If  it  wasn't  for  the  arbitrary  rule  of  etiquette! 

One  day,  when  out  a-hunting  for  the  mus  ndiculus, 
Gray  overheard  his  fellow-man  soliloquising  thus: 
"I  wonder  how  the  playmates  of  my  youth  are 

getting  on, 
M'Connell,    S.    B.    Walters,    Paddy    Byles,    and 

Robinson?" 

These  simple  word     made   Peter  as  delighted  as 

could  be; 
Old  chummies  at  the  Charterhouse  were  Robinson 

and  he. 
He  walked  straight  up  to  Somers,  then  he  turned 

extremely  red, 
Hesitated,  hummed  and  hawed  a  bit,  then  cleared 

his  throat,  and  said: 

[256] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"I  beg  your  pardon — pray  forgive  me  if  I  seem 

too  bold, 
But  you  have  breathed  a  name  I  knew  familiarly 

of  old. 
You  spoke  aloud  of  Robinson — I  happened   to  be 

by. 
You  know  him?"  "Yes,  extremely  well."  "Allow 

me,  so  do  I." 

It  was  enough :  they  felt  they  could  more  pleasantly 

get  on, 
For  (ah,  the  magic  of  the  fact!)  they  each  knew 

Robinson! 

And  Mr.  Somers'  turtle  was  at  Peter's  service  quite, 
And  Mr.  Somers  punished  Peter's  oyster-beds  all 

night. 

They  soon  became  like  brothers  from  community 

of  wrongs; 
They  wrote  each  other  little  odes  and  sang  each 

other  songs; 
They  told  each  other  anecdotes    disparaging   their 

wives ; 
On  several  occasions,  too,  they  saved  each  other's 

lives. 

They  felt  quite  melancholy  when  they  parted  for 

the  night, 

And  got  up  in  the  morning  soon  as  ever  it  was  light; 
Each  other's  pleasant  company  they  reckoned  so 

upon, 
And  all  because  it  happened  that  they  both  knew 

Robinson! 

[257] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


They  lived  for  many  years  on  that  inhospitable 

shore, 
And  day  by  day  they  learned  to  love  each  other 

more  and  more. 

At  last,  to  their  astonishment,  on  getting  up  one  day, 
They  saw  a  frigate  anchored  in  the  offing  of  the  bay. 

To  Peter  an  idea  occurred.     "Suppose  we  cross 

the  main  ? 

So  good  an  opportunity  may  not  be  found  again." 
And   Somers  thought   a   minute,  then   ejaculated, 

"Done! 
I  wonder  how  my  business  in  the  City's  getting  on .?" 

"But  stay,"  said  Mr.  Peter;  "when  in  England,  as 

you  know, 
I  earned  a  living  tasting  teas  for  Baker,  Croop,  and 

Co., 
I   may   be   superseded — my   employers   think   me 

dead!" 
"Then  come  with  me,"  said  Somers,  "and  taste 

indigo  instead." 

But  all  their  plans  were  scattered  in  a  moment 
when  they  found 

The  vessel  was  a  convict  ship  from  Portland  out- 
ward bound; 

When  a  boat  came  off  to  fetch  them,  though  they 
felt  it  very  kind, 

To  go  on  board  they  firmly  but  respectfully  de- 
clined. 

[258] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


As  both  the  happy  settlers  roared  with  laughter  at 

the  joke, 
They    recognized    a    gentlemanly    fellow    pulling 

stroke : 
'Twas    Robinson — a    convict,    in    an    unbecoming 

frock ! 
Condemned   to   seven  years   for  misappropriating 

stock!!! 

They  laughed  no  more,  for  Somers  thought  he  had 

been  rather  rash 
In  knowing  one  whose  friend  had  misappropriated 

cash; 
And  Peter  thought  a  foolish  tack  he  must  have 

gone  upon 
In  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  friend  of  Robinson. 

At  first  they  didn't  quarrel  very  openly,  I've  heard; 
They  nodded  when  they  met,  and  now  and  then 

exchanged  a  word: 
The  word  grew  rare,  and  rarer  still  the  nodding  of 

the  head, 
And  when  they  meet  each  other  now,  they  cut  each 

other  dead. 

To  allocate  the  island  they  agreed  byword  of  mouth, 
And  Peter  takes  the  north  again,  and  Somer  takes 

the  south; 
And  Peter  has  the  oysters,  which  he  hates,  in  layers 

thick, 
And  Somers  has  the  turtle — turtle  always  makes 

him  sick"  W.  S.  Gilbert. 

[259] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  AESTHETE 

IF  you're  anxious  for  to  shine  in  the  high  aesthetic 
line,  as  a  man  of  culture  rare, 
You  must  get  up  all  the  germs  of  the  tran- 
scendental terms,  and  plant  them  everywhere; 
You  must  lie  upon  the  daisies,  and  discourse  in 
novel  phrases  of  your  complicated  state  of  mind 
(The  meaning  doesn't  matter,  if  it's  only  idle  chatter 
of  a  transcendental  kind). 
And  every  one  will  say, 
As  you  walk  your  mystic  way, 
"If  this  young  man  expresses  himself  in  terms  too 

deep  for  me, 

Why,  what  a  very  singularly  deep  young  man  this 
deep  young  man  must  be!" 

Be  eloquent  in  praise  of  the  very  dull  old   days 

which  have  long  since  passed  away, 
And  convince  'em,  if  you  can,  that  the  reign  of  good 

Queen  Anne  was  Culture's  palmiest  day. 
Of  course  you  will  pooh-pooh  whatever's  fresh  and 

new,  and  declare  it's  crude  and  mean, 
And  that  Art  stopped  short  in  the  cultivated  court 

of  the  Empress  Josephine. 
And  every  one  will  say, 
As  you  walk  your  mystic  way, 
"If  that's  not  good  enough  for  him  which  is  good 

enough  for  me, 
Why,  what  a  very  cultivated  kind  of  youth  this  kind 

of  youth  must  be!" 

[260] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Then  a  sentimental  passion  of  a  vegetable  fashion 

must  excite  your  languid  spleen, 
An  attachment  a  la  Plato  for  a  bashful  young  potato, 

or  a  not-too-Frer_ch  French  bean. 
Though  the  Philistines  may  jostle,  you  will  rank 

as  an  apostle  in  the  high  aesthetic  band, 
If  you  walk  down  Piccadilly  with  a  poppy  or  a  lily 

in  your  mediaeval  hand. 

And  every  one  will  say, 
As  you  walk  your  flowery  way, 
"  If  he's  content  with  a  vegetable  love,  which  would 

certainly  not  suit  me, 
Why,  what  a  most  particularly  pure  young  man  this 

pure  young  man  must  be!" 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 

TOO  LATE! 

"  Ah!   si  la  jeunesse  savait, — si  la  vieillesse  pouvait!" 

r  I  AHERE  sat  an  old  man  on  a  rock, 

And  unceasing  bewailed  him  of  Fate, 
That  concern  where  we  all  must  take  stock, 
Though  our  vote  has  no  hearing  or  weight; 
And  the  old  man  sang  him  an  old,  old  song — 
Never  sang  voice  so  clear  and  strong 
That  it  could  drown  the  old  man's  for  long, 
For  he  sang  the  song,  "Too  late!  too  late!" 

When  we  want,  we  have  for  our  pains 

The  promise  that  if  we  but  wait 
Till  the  want  has  burned  out  of  our  brains, 

Every  means  shall  be  present  to  state; 

[26l] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


While  we  send  for  the  napkins,  the  soup  gets  cold; 
While  the  bonnet  is  trimming,  the  face  grows  old; 
When  we've  matched  our  buttons,  the  pattern  is 

sold, 
And  everything  comes  too  late — too  late! 

"When  strawberries  seemed  like  red  heavens, 

Terrapin  stew  a  wild  dream, 
When  my  brain  was  at  sixes  and  sevens, 

If  my  mother  had  'folks'  and  ice-cream, 
Then  I  gazed  with  a  lickerish  hunger 
At  the  restaurant-man  and  fruit-monger — 
But  oh!  how  I  wished  I  were  younger, 

When  the  goodies  all  came  in  a  stream — in  a 
stream! 

"I've  a  splendid  blood-horse,  and — a  liver 

That  it  jars  into  torture  to  trot; 
My  row-boat's  the  gem  of  the  river — 

Gout  makes  every  knuckle  a  knot! 
I  can  buy  boundless  credits  on  Paris  and  Rome, 
But  no  palate  for  menus,  no  eyes  for  a  dome — 
'Those    belonged  to  the  youth  who  must  tarry  at 
home, 

When  no  home  but  an  attic  he'd  got — he'd  got! 

"How  I  longed,  in  that  lonest  of  garrets, 
Where  the  tiles  baked  my  brains  all  July, 

For  ground  to  grow  two  pecks  of  carrots, 
Two  pigs  of  my  own  in  a  sty, 

A  rosebush,  a  little  thatched  cottage, 

Two  spoons,  love,  a  basin  of  pottage! 
[  262  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Now  in  freestone  I  sit,  and  my  dotage, 

With  a  woman's  chair  empty  close  by — close  by! 

"Ah,  now,  though  I  sit  on  a  rock, 

I  have  shared  one  seat  with  the  great; 
I  have  sat — knowing  naught  of  the  clock — 

On  love's  high  throne  of  state; 

But  the  lips  that  kissed,  and  the  arms  that  caressed, 

To  a  mouth  grown  stern  with  delay  were  pressed, 

And  circled  a  breast  that  their  clasp  had  blessed, 

Had  they  only  not  come  too  late — too  late!" 

Fitz-Hugh  Ludlow. 


G 


LIFE  IN  LACONICS 

IVEN  a  roof,  and  a  taste  for  rations, 

And  you  have  the  key  to  the  "wealth  of 
nations." 


Given  a  boy,  a  tree,  and  a  hatchet, 
And  virtue  strives  in  vain  to  match  it. 

Given  a  pair,  a  snake,  and  an  apple, 
You  make  the  whole  world  need  a  chapel. 

Given  "no  cards,"  broad  views,  and  a  hovel, 
You  have  a  realistic  novel. 

Given  symptoms  and  doctors  with  potion  and  pill, 
And  your  heirs  will  ere  long  be  contesting  your  will. 

[263] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


That  good  leads  to  evil  there's  no  denying: 

If  it  were  not  for  truth  there  would  be  no  lying. 

"I'm  nobody!"  should  have  a  hearse; 
But  then,  "I'm  somebody!"  is  worse. 

"Folks  say,"  et  cetera!     Well,  they  shouldn't, 
And  if  they  knew  you  well,  they  wouldn't. 

When  you  coddle  your  life,  all  its  vigor  and  grace 
Shrink  away  with  the  whisper,"  We're  in  the  wrong 
place." 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


DISTICHES 

WISELY  a  woman  prefers  to  a  lover  a  man 
who  neglects  her. 

This  one  may  love  her  some   day;  some 
day  the  lover  will  not. 

There  are  three  species  of  creatures  who,  when  they 

seem  coming,  are  going; 
When   they   seem   going,    they   come:    Diplomats, 

women,  and  crabs. 

As  the  meek  beasts  in  the  Garden  came  flocking 

for  Adam  to  name  them, 
Men  for  a  title  to-day  crawl  to  the  feet  of  a  king. 

[264] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


What  is  a  first  love  worth  except  to  prepare  for  a 

second  ? 
What  does  the  second  love  bring?     Only  regret  for 

the  first. 

'John  Hay. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CRITICS 


I 


F  those  who  wield  the  rod  forget, 
'Tis  truly,  Quis  custodiet? 


A  certain  bard  (as  bards  will  do) 

Dressed  up  his  poems  for  review. 

His  type  was  plain,  his  title  clear, 

His  frontispiece  by  Fourdrinier. 

Moreover,  he  had  on  the  back 

A  sort  of  sheepskin  zodiac — 

A  mask,  a  harp,  an  owl — in  fine, 

A  neat  and  "classical"  design. 

But  the  in-side  ?     Well,  good  or  bad, 

The  inside  was  the  best  he  had- 

Much  memory,  more  imitation, 

Some  accidents  of  inspiration, 

Some  essays  in  that  finer  fashion 

Where  fancy  takes  the  place  of  passion; 

And  some  (of  course)  more  roughly  wrought 

To  catch  the  advocates  of  thought. 

In  the  less-crowded  age  of  Anne, 
Our  bard  had  been  a  favoured  man; 

[265] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Fortune,  more  chary  with  the  sickle, 
Had  ranked  him  next  to  Garth  or  Tickell; 
He  might  have  even  dared  to  hope 
A  line's  malignity  from  Pope! 
But  now,  when  folks  are  hard  to  please, 
And  poets  are  as  thick  as — peas, 
The  Fates  are  not  so  prone  to  flatter, 
Unless,  indeed,  a  friend  .  .  .  No  matter. 

The  book,  then,  had  a  minor  credit. 
The  critics  took,  and  doubtless  read  it. 
Said  A.:  "These  little  songs  display 
No  lyric  gift,  but  still  a  ray, 
A  promise.     They  will  do  no  harm." 
'Twas  kindly,  if  not  very  warm. 
Said  B. :  "The  author  may,  in  time, 
Acquire  the  rudiments  of  rhyme; 
His  efforts  now  are  scarcely  verse." 
This,  certainly,  could  not  be  worse. 

Sorely  discomfited,  our  bard 

Worked  for  another  ten  years — hard. 

Meanwhile  the  world,  unmoved,  went  on; 

New  stars  shot  up,  shone  out,  were  gone; 

Before  his  second  volume  came, 

His  critics  had  forgot  his  name: 

And  who,  forsooth,  is  bound  to  know 

Each  laureate  in  embryo! 

They  tried  and  tested  him,  no  less, 

The  pure  assayers  of  the  Press. 

Said  A. :  "  The  author  may,  in  time  .  .  ." 

Or  much  what  B.  had  said  of  rhyme. 

[  266] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Then  B. :  "  These  little  song  s  display  ..." 
And  so  forth,  in  the  sense  of  A. 
Over  the  bard  I  throw  a  veil. 

There  is  no  moral  to  this  tale. 

Austin  Dobson. 


THE  LOVE-LETTER 

"J'ai  vu  les  mceurs  de  mon   temps,  et  j'ai   public-  cette  lettre." — La 
Nou-velle  Heloise. 

IF  this  should  fail,  why,  then  I  scarcely  know 
What  could  succeed.     Here's  brilliancy  (and 

banter), 
Byron  ad  lib.,  a  chapter  of  Rousseau; 

If  this  should  fail,  then  tempora  mutantur; 
Style's  out  of  date,  and  love,  as  a  profession, 
Acquires  no  aid  from  beauty  of  expression. 

"The  men  who  think  as  I,  I  fear,  are  few" 

(Cynics   would   say   'twere   well   if  they  were 
fewer) ; 

"I  am  not  what  I  seem" — (indeed,  'tis  true; 
Though,  as  a  sentiment,  it  might  be  newer); 

"Mine  is  a  soul  whose  deeper  feelings  he 

More  deep  than  words" — (as  these  exemplify). 

"I  will  not  say  when  first  your  beauty's  sun 
Illumed  my  life" — (it  needs  imagination); 

"For  me  to  see  you  and  to  love  were  one"- 
(This  will  account  for  some  precipitation); 

[267] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


"Let  it  suffice  that  worship  more  devoted 
Ne'er  throbbed,"  et  cetera.     The  rest  is  quoted. 

"If  Love  can  look  with  all-prophetic  eye" — 

(Ah,  if  he  could,  how  many  would  be  single!) 

"If  truly  spirit  unto  spirit  cry"- 

(The  ears  of  some  most  terribly  must  tingle!) 

"Then  I  have  dreamed  you  will  not  turn  your  face." 

This  next,  I  think,  is  more  than  commonplace. 

"Why  should  we  speak,  if  Love,  interpreting, 
Forestall  the  speech  with  favour  found  before  ? 

Why  should  we  plead  ?  it  were  an  idle  thing, 
If  Love  himself  be  Love's  ambassador!" 

Blot,  as  I  live!     Shall  we  erase  it?     No; 

'Twill  show  we  write  currents  calamo. 

"My  fate,  my  fortune,  I  commit  to  you"- 

(In  point  of  fact,  the  latter's  not  extensive); 

"Without  you  I  am  poor  indeed"   (strike  through — 
'Tis  true,  but  crude;  'twould  make  her  appre- 
hensive); 

"My  life  is  yours — I  lay  it  at  your  feet" 

(Having  no  choice  but  Hymen  or  the  Fleet). 

"Give  me  the  right  to  stand  within  the  shrine 
Where  never  yet  my  faltering  feet  intruded; 

Give  me  the  right  to  call  you  wholly  mine"- 

(That  is,  consols  and  three-per-cents,  included); 

"To  guard  your  rest  from  every  care  that  cankers — 

To  keep  your  life" — (and  balance  at  your  banker's). 

[268] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"Compel  me  not  to  long  for  your  reply; 

Suspense  makes  havoc  with  the  mind" — (and 

muscles); 
"Winged  Hope  takes  flight"   (which  means  that 

I  must  fly, 

Default  of  funds,  to  Paris  or  to  Brussels); 
"I  cannot  wait!     My  own,  my  queen — Priscilla! 
Write  by  return."     And  now  for  a  manilla! 

"Miss  Blank,"  at  "Blank."     Jemima,  let  it  go; 

And  I,  meanwhile,  will  idle  with  "Sir  Walter." 
Stay,  let  me  keep  the  first  rough  copy,  though — 
'Twill  serve  again.     There's  but  the  name  to 

alter, 
And    Love,  that    starves,   must    knock    at    every 

portal, 
In  forma  pauperis.     We  are  but  mortal! 

Austin  Dobson. 

FAME 

ALL  over  the  world  we  sing  of  Fame, 
Bright  as  a  bubble,  and  hollow; 
With  a  breath  men  make  it  and  give  it  a 

name; 

All  over  the  world- they  sing  the  same, 
And  the  beautiful  bubble  follow. 

Its  rounded,  splendid,  gossamer  walls 

Hide  more  than  our  fairy  fancies: 
For  here,  in  the  vaulted,  antique  halls, 
'Mid  oriel  splendours,  a  light  foot  falls, 

And  a  fairy  figure  dances. 
[269] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  men  will  do  for  a  glancing  eye, 

And  foot  that  tarries  never, 
More,  far  more  than  look  and  sigh; 
For  men  will  fight,  and  man  will  die, 

But  follow  it  on  for  ever. 

James  Herbert  Morse. 


FIVE  LIVES 

FIVE  mites  of  monads  dwelt  in  a  round  drop 
That  twinkled  on  a  leaf  by  a  pool  in  the  sun. 
To  the  naked  eye  they  lived  invisible; 
Specks,  for  a  world  of  whom  the  empty  shell 
Of  a  mustard-seed  had  been  a  hollow  sky. 

One  was  a  meditative  monad,  called  a  sage; 
And,  shrinking  all  his  mind  within,  he  thought: 
"Tradition,  handed  down  for  hours  and  hours, 
Tells  that  our  globe,  this  quivering  crystal  world, 
Is  slowly  dying.     What  if,  seconds  hence 
When  I  am  very  old,  yon  shimmering  doom 
Comes  drawing  down  and  down,  till  all  things  end  ? " 
Then  with  a  wizen  smirk  he  proudly  felt 
No  other  mote  of  God  had  ever  gained 
Such  giant  grasp  of  universal  truth. 

One  was  a  transcendental  monad;  thin 
And  long  and  slim  of  mind;  and  thus  he  mused: 
"Oh,  vast,  unfathomable  monad-souls! 
Made  in  the  image" — a  horse  frog  croaks  from  the 
pool, 

[270] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"  Hark !  'twas  some  god,  voicing  his  glorious  thought 
In  thunder-music.     Yea,  we  hear  their  voice, 
And  we  may  guess  their  minds  from  ours,  their  work. 
Some  taste  they  have  like  ours,  some  tendency 
To  wriggle  about,  and  munch  a  trace  of  scum." 
He  floated  up  on  a  pin-point  bubble  of  gas, 
That  burst,  pricked  by  the  air,  and  he  was  gone. 

One  was  a  barren-minded  monad,  called 
A  positivist,  and  he  knew  positively: 
"There  was  no  world  beyond  this  certain  drop. 
Prove  me  another!     Let  the  dreamers  dream 
Of  their  faint  gleams,  and  noises  from  without, 
And  higher  and  lower;  life  is  life  enough." 
Then  swaggering  half  a  hair's-breath  hungrily, 
He  seized  upon  an  atom  of  bug,  and  fed. 

One  was  a  tattered  monad,  called  a  poet, 

And  with  a  shrill  voice  ecstatic  thus  he  sang: 

"Oh,  little  female  monad's  lips! 

Oh,  little  female  monad's  eyes! 

Ah,  the  little,  little,  female,  female  monad!" 

The  last  was  a  strong-minded  monadess, 

Who  dashed  amid  the  infusoria, 

Danced  high  and  low,  and  wildly  spun  and  dove, 

Till  the  dizzy  others  held  their  breath  to  see. 

But  while  they  led  their  wondrous  little  lives, 

Ionian  moments  had  gone  wheeling  by, 

The  burning  drop  had  shrunk  with  fearful  speed; 

A  glistening  film — 'twas  gone;  the  leaf  was  dry. 

The  little  ghost  of  an  inaudible  squeak 

Was  lost  to  the  frog  that  goggled  from  his  stone; 

[27I  ] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Who,  at  the  huge,  slow  tread  of  a  thoughtful  ox 
Coming  to  drink,  stirred  sideways  fatly,  plunged, 
Launched  backward  twice,  and  all  the  pool  was 
still. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 


W 


HE  AND  SHE 

HEN  I  am  dead  you'll  find  it  hard, 

Said  he, 

To  ever  find  another  man 
Like  me. 


What  makes  you  think,  as  I  suppose 

You  do, 
I'd  ever  want  another  man 

Like  you  ? 

Eugene  Fitch  Ware. 


WHAT  WILL  WE  DO? 

WHAT  will  we  do  when  the  good  days  come — 
When  the  prima  donna's  lips  are  dumb, 
And   the  man  who  reads   us   his  "little 

things" 

Has  lost  his  voice  like  the  girl  who  sings; 
When  stilled  is  the  breath  of  the  cornet-man, 
And  the  shrilling  chords  of  the  quartette  clan; 
When    our    neighbours'    children    have    lost    their 

drums — 

Oh,  what  will  we  do  when  the  good  time  comes  ? 
[272] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Oh,  what  will  we  do  in  that  good,  blithe  time, 
When  the  tramp  will  work — oh,  thing  sublime! 
And  the  scornful  dame  who  stands  on  your  feet 
Will  "Thank  you,  sir,"  for  the  proffered  seat; 
And  the  man  you  hire  to  work  by  the  day, 
Will  allow  you  to  do  his  work  your  way; 
And  the  cook  who  trieth  your  appetite 
Will  steal  no  more  than  she  thinks  is  right; 
When  the  boy  you  hire  will  call  you  "Sir," 
Instead  of  "Say"  and  "Guverner"; 
When  the  funny  man  is  humorsome — 
How  can  we  stand  the  millennium  ? 

Robert  J.  Burdette. 


THE  TOOL 

r  I  AHE  man  of  brains,  of  fair  repute  and  birth, 

Who    loves    high    place   above   all   else  of 

earth — 

Who  loves  it  so,  he'll  go  without  the  power, 
If  he  may  hold  the  semblance  but  an  hour; 
Willing  to  be  some  sordid  creature's  tool, 
So  he  but  seem  a  little  while  to  rule — 
On  him  even  moral  pigmies  would  look  down; 
Were  prizes  given  for  shame,  he'd  wear  the  crown. 
Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


[273] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


GIVE  ME  A  THEME 

IVE  me  a  theme,"  the  little  poet  cried, 

"And  I  will  do  my  part." 
"Tis  not  a  theme  you  need,"  the  world 

replied; 
"You  need  a  heart." 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


THE  POEM,  TO  THE  CRITIC 

WEIGH  me,  if  you're  fain; 
Measure  me,  if  it  is  your  plan; 
Know  your  little  thimble-brain 
Hold  me  never  can. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


BALLADE  OF  LITERARY  FAME 

"  All  these  for  fourpence." 

OH,  where  are  the  endless  romances 
Our  grandmothers  used  to  adore  ? 
The    knights   with    their   helms    and    their 

lances, 

Their  shields  and  the  favours  they  wore? 
And  the  monks  with  their  magical  lore  ? 
They  have  passed  to  oblivion  and  Nox; 
They  have  fled  to  the  shadowy  shore — 
They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box! 

[274] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  where  the  poetical  fancies 

Our  fathers  rejoiced  in,  of  yore  ? 
The  lyric's  melodious  expanses, 

The  epics  in  cantos  a  score. 
They  have  been,  and  are  not.     No  more 

Shall  the  shepherds  drive  silvery  flocks, 
Nor  the  ladies  their  languors  deplore — 
They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box! 

And  the  music!     The  songs  and  the  dances? 

The  tunes  that  time  may  not  restore  ? 
And  the  tomes  where  divinity  prances  ? 

And  the  pamphlets  where  heretics  roar? 
They  have  ceased  to  be  even  a  bore, — 

The  divine,  and  the  sceptic  who  mocks; 
They  are  "cropped,"  they  are  "foxed"  to  the  core, 

They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box! 

ENVOI 

Suns  beat  on  them;  tempests  downpour, 
On  the  chest  without  cover  or  locks, 

Where  they  lie  by  the  Bookseller's  door — 
They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box! 

Andrew  Lang. 


I 


CHORUS  OF  ANGLOMANIACS 

T  is  positively  false  to  call  us  frantic, 

For  the  soundness  of  our  mental  state  is  sure, 
Yet  we  look  upon  this  side  of  the  Atlantic 
As  a  tract  of  earth  unpleasant  to  endure. 

[275  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


We  consider  dear  old  England  as  the  fountain 

Of  all  institutions  reputably  sane; 
We  abominate  and  loathe  a  Rocky  Mountain; 

We  regard  a  rolling  prairie  with  disdain. 

We  assiduously  imitate  the  polish 

That  we  notice  round  the  English  nabob  hang; 
We  unfailingly  endeavour  to  abolish 

From  our  voices  any  trace  of  nasal  twang. 

Every  patriotic  duty  we  leave  undone, 

With  aversion  such  as  Hebrews  hold  for  pork, 

Since  we  venerate  the  very  name  of  London 
In  proportion  to  our  hatred  of  New  York. 

No  treaty  could  in  any  manner  soften 

Our  contempt  for  native  tailors  when  we  dress; 
If  we  bet,  we  "lay  a  guinea,"  rather  often, 

And  we  always  say  "I  farncy"  for  "I  guess." 

We  esteem  the  Revolution  as  illegal; 

If  you  mention  Bunker  Hill  to  us,  we  sigh; 
We  particularly  execrate  an  eagle, 

And  we  languish  on  the  fourth  day  of  July. 

We  are  not  prepared  in  any  foolish  manner 
The  vulgarities  of  Uncle  Sam  to  screen; 

We  dislike  to  hear  that  dull  "Star-Spangled  Ban- 

» 
ner, 

But  we  thoroughly  respect "  God  save  the  Queen." 

We  revere  the  Prince  of  Wales,  though  he  should 

prick  us 

With  a  sneer  at  the  republic  we  obey! 
[276] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


We  would  rather  let  his  Royal  Highness  kick  us 
Than  have  been  the  bosom  friend  of  Henry  Clay! 

Edgar  Faivcett. 
From  "  The  Bunding  Ball." 

THE  NET  OF  LAW 

THE  net  of  law  is  spread  so  wide, 
No  sinner  from  its  sweep  may  hide. 

Its  meshes  are  so  fine  and  strong, 
They  take  in  every  child  of  wrong. 

O  wondrous  web  of  mystery! 
Big  fish  alone  escape  from  thee! 

"James  Jeffrey  Roche. 

A  BOSTON  LULLABY 

BABY'S  brain  is  tired  of  thinking 
On  the  Wherefore  and  the  Whence; 
Baby's  precious  eyes  are  blinking 
With  incipient  somnolence. 

Little  hands  are  weary  turning 

Heavy  leaves  of  lexicon; 
Little  nose  is  fretted  learning 

How  to  keep  its  glasses  on. 

Baby  knows  the  laws  of  nature 

Are  beneficent  and  wise; 
His  medulla  oblongata 

Bids  my  darling  close  his  eyes 

[277] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


And  his  pneumogastrics  tell  him 

Quietude  is  always  best 
When  his  little  cerebellum 

Needs  recuperative  rest. 

Baby  must  have  relaxation, 

Let  the  world  go  wrong  or  right. 
Sleep,  my  darling — leave  Creation 
To  its  chances  for  the  night. 

James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


F 


THE  V-A-S-E 

ROM  the  madding  crowd 'they  stand  apart, 
The  maidens  four  and  the  Work  of  Art; 


And  none  might  tell  from  sight  alone 
In  which  had  culture  ripest  grown — 

The  Gotham  Millions  fair  to  see, 
The  Philadelphia  Pedigree, 

The  Boston  Mind  of  azure  hue, 

Or  the  Soulful  Soul  from  Kalamazoo; 

For  all  loved  Art  in  a  seemly  way. 
With  an  earnest  soul  and  a  capital  A. 


Long  they  worshipped;  but  no  one  broke 
The  sacred  stillness,  until  up  spoke 

[278] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


The  Western  one  from  the  nameless  place, 
Who,  blushing,  said,  "What  a  lovely  vace!" 

Over  three  faces  a  sad  smile  flew, 

And  they  edged  away  from  Kalamazoo. 

But  Gotham's  haughty  soul  was  stirred 
To  crush  the  stranger  with  one  small  word; 

Deftly  hiding  reproof  in  praise, 

She  cries,  "'Tis,  indeed,  a  lovely  vaze!" 

But  brief  her  unworthy  triumph,  when 
The  lofty  one  from  the  home  of  Penn, 

With  the  consciousness  of  two  grandpapas, 
Exclaims,  "It  is  quite  a  lovely  vahs!" 

And  glances  round  with  an  anxious  thrill, 
Awaiting  the  word  of  Beacon  Hill. 

But  the  Boston  maid  smiles  courteouslee, 
And  gently  murmurs,  "Oh,  pardon  me! 

"I  did  not  catch  your  remark,  because 

I  was  so  entranced  with  that  charming  vaws!" 

Dies  ent  prageltda 
Sinistra  quum  Bostonia. 

James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


[279] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THURSDAY 

r  I  ^HE  sun  was  setting,  and  vespers  done; 

From  chapel  the  monks  came  one  by  one, 
And  down  they  went  thro'  the  garden  trim, 
In  cassock  and  cowl,  to  the  river's  brim. 
Ev'ry  brother  his  rod  he  took; 
Ev'ry  rod  had  a  line  and  a  hook; 
Ev'ry  hook  had  a  bait  so  fine, 
And  thus  they  sang  in  the  even  shine: 
"Oh,  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  so  we'll  fish  the 

stream  to-day! 

Oh,  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  so  we'll  fish  the 
stream  to-day! 

Benedicite!" 

So  down  they  sate  by  the  river's  brim, 
And  fish'd  till  the  light  was  growing  dim; 
They  fish'd  the  stream  till  the  moon  was  high, 
But  never  a  fish  came  wand'ring  by. 
They  fish'd  the  stream  in  the  bright  moonshine, 
But  not  one  fish  would  he  come  to  dine. 
And  the  Abbot  said,  "It  seems  to  me 
These  rascally  fish  are  all  gone  to  sea. 
And  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  but  we've  caught  no 

fish  to-day; 

Oh,  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  but  we've  caught  no 
fish  to-day! 

Maledicite!" 

So  back  they  went  to  the  convent  gate, 
Abbot  and  monks  disconsolate; 
[280] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


For  they  thought  of  the  morrow  with  faces  white, 
Saying,  "Oh,  we  must  curb  our  appetite! 
But  down  in  the  depths  of  the  vault  below 
There's  Malvoisie  for  a  world  of  woe!" 
So  they  quaff  their  wine,  and  all  declare 
That  fish,  after  all,  is  but  gruesome  fare. 
"Oh,  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  so  we'll  warm  our 

souls  to-day! 

Oh,  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  so  we'll  warm  our 
souls  to-day! 

Benedicite!" 

Frederick  Edward  Weatberly. 


A  BIRD  IN  THE  HAND 

r  I  AHERE  were  three  young  maids  of  Lee; 
They  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 
And  they  had  lovers  three  times  three, 

For  they  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 

These  three  young  maids  of  Lee. 
But  these  young  maids  they  cannot  find 
A  lover  each  to  suit  her  mind; 
The  plain-spoke  lad  is  far  too  rough, 
The  rich  young  lord  is  not  rich  enough, 
The  one  is  too  poor,  and  one  is  too  tall, 
And  one  just  an  inch  too  short  for  them  all. 
"Others  pick  and  choose,  and  why  not  we? 
We  can  very  well  wait,"  said  the  maids  of  Lee. 

There  were  three  young  maids  of  Lee; 

They  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 

And  they  had  lovers  three  times  three 
[28l] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


For  they  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 
These  three  young  maids  of  Lee. 

There  are  three  old  maids  of  Lee, 

And  they  are  old  as  old  can  be, 

And  one  is  deaf,  and  one  cannot  see, 

And  they  are  all  as  cross  as  a  gallows-tree, 

These  three  old  maids  of  Lee. 
Now,  if  any  one  chanced — 'tis  a  chance  remote — 
One  single  charm  in  these  maids  to  note, 
He  need  not  a  poet  nor  handsome  be, 
For  one  is  deaf  and  one  cannot  see; 
He  need  not  woo  on  his  bended  knee, 
For  they  all  are  willing  as  willing  can  be. 
He  may  take  the  one,  or  the  two,  or  the  three, 
If  he'll  only  take  them  away  from  Lee. 

There  are  three  old  maids  at  Lee; 

They  are  cross  as  cross  can  be; 

And  there  they  are,  and  there  they'll  be 

To  the  end  of  the  chapter,  one,  two,  three, 

These  three  old  maids  of  Lee. 

Frederick  Edward  Weatherly. 

AN  ADVANCED  THINKER. 

THIS  modern  scientist — a  word  uncouth — 
Who  calls  himself  a  seeker  after  truth, 
And  traces  man  through  monkey  back  to 

fr°g> 

Seeing  a  Plato  in  each  pollywog, 
Ascribes  all  things  unto  the  power  of  Matter. 
The  woman's  anguish,  and  the  baby's  chatter — 
[282] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


The  soldier's  glory,  and  his  country's  need — 
Self-sacrificing  love — self-seeking  greed — 
The  false  religion  some  vain  bigots  prize, 
Which  seeks  to  win  a  soul  by  telling  lies — 
And  even  pseudo-scientific  clatter — 
All  these,  he  says,  are  but  the  work  of  Matter. 
Thus,  self-made  science,  like  a  self-made  man, 
Deems  naught  uncomprehended  in  its  plan; 
Sees  naught  he  can't  explain  by  his  own  laws. 
The  time  has  come,  at  length,  to  bid  him  pause, 
Before  he  strive  to  leap  the  unknown  chasm 
Reft  wide  'twixt  awful  God  and  protoplasm. 

Brander  Matthews. 

A  THOUGHT 

IF  all  the  harm  that  women  have  done 
Were  put  in  a  bundle  and  rolled  into  one, 
Earth  would  not  hold  it, 
The  sky  could  not  enfold  it, 
It  could  not  be  lighted  nor  warmed  by  the  sun; 
Such  masses  of  evil 
Would  puzzle  the  devil, 
And  keep  him  in  fuel  while  Time's  wheels  run. 

But  if  all  the  harm  that's  been  done  by  men 
Were  doubled,  and  doubled,  and  doubled  again, 
And  melted  and  fused  into  vapour,  and  then 
Were  squared  and  raised  to  the  power  of  ten, 
There  wouldn't  be  nearly  enough,  not  near, 
To  keep  a  small  girl  for  the  tenth  of  a  year. 

J.  K.  Stephen. 
[283] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  SONNET 

TWO  voices  are  there:  one  is  of  the  deep: 
It    learns    the    storm-cloud's   thunderous 

melody, 

Now  roars,  now  murmurs  with  the  changing  sea, 
Now  bird-like  pipes,  now  closes  soft  in  sleep: 
And  one  is  of  an  old,  half-witted  sheep, 
Which  bleats  articulate  monotony, 
And  indicates  that  two  and  one  are  three, 
That  grass  is  green,  lakes  damp,  and  mountains 

steep ; 
And,    Wordsworth,    both    are    thine.     At    certain 

times 

Forth  from  the  heart  of  thy  melodious  rhymes, 
The  form  and  pressure  of  high  thoughts  will  burst; 
At  other  times — good  Lord!  I'd  rather  be 
Quite  unacquainted  with  the  ABC, 
Than  write  such  hopeless  rubbish  as  thy  worst. 

J.  K.  Stephen. 


THEY  SAID 

BECAUSE  thy  prayer  hath  never  fed 
Dark  Ate  with  the  food  she  craves; 
Because  thou  dost  not  hate,  they  said, 
Nor  joy  to  step  on  foemen's  graves; 
Because  thou  canst  not  hate,  as  we, 
How  poor  a  creature  thou  must  be! 
Thy  veins  as  pale  as  ours  are  red! 
Go  to!    Love  loves  thee  not,  they  said. 

[284] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Because  by  thee  no  snare  was  spread 

To  baffle  Love — if  Love  should  stray; 
Because  thou  dost  not  watch,  they  said, 
To  strictly  compass  Love  each  way; 
Because  thou  dost  not  watch,  as  we, 
Nor  jealous  Care  hath  lodged  with  thee, 
To  strew  with  thorns  a  restless  bed — 
Go  to!    Love  loves  thee  not,  they  said. 

Because  thy  feet  were  not  misled 
To  jocund  ground,  yet  all  infirm; 

Because  thou  art  not  fond,  they  said, 
Nor  dost  exact  thine  heyday  term; 

Because  thou  art  not  fond,  as  we, 

How  dull  a  creature  thou  must  be! 

Thy  pulse  how  slow,  yet  shrewd  thy  head! 

Go  to!    Love  loves  thee  not,  they  said. 

Because  thou  hast  not  roved  to  wed 

With  those  to  Love  aveise  or  strange; 
Because  thou  hast  not  roved,  they  said, 

Nor  ever  studied  artful  change; 
Because  thou  hast  not  roved,  as  we, 
Love  paid  no  ransom  rich  for  thee, 
Nor,  seeking  thee,  unwearied  sped. 
Go  to!    Love  loves  thee  not,  they  said. 

Aye,  so!  because  thou  thought'st  to  tread 
Love's  ways,  and  all  his  bidding  do; 

Because  thou  hast  not  tired,  they  said, 
Nor  ever  wert  to  Love  untrue; 

Because  thou  hast  not  tired,  as  we, 

How  tedious  must  thy  service  be; 

[285] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Love  with  thy  zeal  is  surfeited! 

Go  to!    Love  loves  thee  not,  they  said. 

Because  thou  hast  not  wanton  shed 

On  every  hand  thy  heritage; 
Because  thou  art  not  flush,  they  said, 

But  hast  regard  to  meagre  age; 
Because  thou  art  not  flush,  as  we, 
How  strait  thy  cautious  soul  must  be! 
How  well  thy  thrift  stands  thee  in  stead! 
Go  to!    Love  loves  thee  not,  they  said. 

And  therefore  look  thou  not  for  bread — 

For  wine  and  bread  from  Love's  deep  store, 

Because  thou  hast  no  need,  they  said; 
But  us  he'll  feast  forevermore! 

Because  thou  hast  no  need,  as  we, 

Sit  in  his  purlieus,  thou,  and  see 

How  with  Love's  bounty  we  are  fed. 

Go  to!    Love  loves  thee  not,  they  said. 

Edith  M.   Thomas. 


TO  R.  K. 

As  long  I  dwell  on  some  stupendous 

And  tremendous  (Heaven  defend  us!) 

Monstr' inform'- ingens-horrendous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 

Penman's  latest  piece  of  graphic. — Browning. 


w 


ILL  there  never  come  a  season 
Which  shall  rid  us  from  the  curse 
Of  a  prose  which  knows  no  reason, 
And  an  unmelodious  verse?— 
[286] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


When  the  world  shall  cease  to  wonder 

At  the  genius  of  an  Ass, 
And  a  boy's  eccentric  blunder 

Shall  not  bring  success  to  pass? — 

When  mankind  shall  be  delivered 

From  the  clash  of  magazines, 
And  the  inkstand  shall  be  shivered 

Into  countless  smithereens? — 
When  there  stands  a  muzzled  stripling, 

Mute,  beside  a  muzzled  bore  ? — 
When  the  Rudyards  cease  from  Kipling, 

And  the  Haggards  Ride  no  more  ? 

y.  K.  Stephen. 


TO  MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES  SAAVEDRA 

A    BLUEBIRD  lives  in  yonder  tree, 
J-\  Likewise  a  little  chickadee, 

In  two  woodpeckers'  nests,  rent  free. 

There,  where  the  weeping  willow  weeps, 
A  dainty  house-wren  sweetly  cheeps; 
From  an  old  oriole's  nest  she  peeps. 

I  see  the  English  sparrow  tilt 

Upon  a  limb  with  sun  begilt; 

Her  nest  an  ancient  swallow  built. 

So  it  was  one  of  your  old  jests, 
Eh,  Mig.  Cervantes,  that  attests 
"There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nests?" 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick. 

[287] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

IN  letters  large  upon  the  frame, 
That  visitors  might  see, 
The  painter  placed  his  humble  name: 
O'Callaghan  McGee. 

And  from  Beersheba  unto  Dan, 

The  critics,  with  a  nod, 
Exclaimed:  "This  painting  Irishman 

Adores  his  native  sod. 

"His  stout  heart's  patriotic  flame 
There's  naught  on  earth  can  quell; 

He  takes  no  wild  romantic  name 
To  make  his  pictures  sell." 

Then  poets  praise,  in  sonnets  neat, 
His  stroke  so  bold  and  free; 

No  parlor  wall  was  thought  complete 
That  hadn't  a  McGee. 

All  patriots  before  McGee 

Threw  lavishly  their  gold; 
His  works  in  the  Academy 

Were  very  quickly  sold. 

His  "Digging  Clams  at  Barnegat," 
His  "When  the  Morning  Smiled," 

His  "Seven  Miles  from  Ararat," 
His  "Portrait  of  a  Child," 

[288] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Were  purchased  in  a  single  day, 
And  lauded  as  divine. 


That  night  as  in  his  atelier 
The  artist  sipped  his  wine, 

And  looked  upon  his  gilded  frames, 

He  grinned  from  ear  to  ear: 
"They  little  think  my  real  name's 

V.  Stuyvesant  De  Vere!" 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick. 


WED. 

FR  these  white  arms  about  my  neck — 
For    the    dainty   room,  with   its   ordered 

grace — 

For  my  snowy  linen  without  a  fleck — 
For  the  tender  charm  of  this  uplift  face — 

For  the  softened  light  and  the  homelike  air — 

The  low,  luxurious  cannel  fire — 
The  padded  ease  of  my  chosen  chair — 

The  devoted  love  that  discounts  desire — 

I  sometimes  think,  when  twelve  is  struck 
By  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  tinkling  clear, 

I  would  take — and  thank  the  gods  for  the  luck — 
One  single  hour  with  the  boys  and  the  beer, 

Where  the  sawdust-scent  of  a  cheap  saloon 

Is  mingled  with  malt;  where  each  man  smokes; 

[289] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Where  they  sing  the  street-songs  out  of  tune, 
Talk  Art,  and  bandy  ephemeral  jokes. 

By  Jove,  I  do!     And  all  the  time 

I  know  not  a  man  that  is  there  to-night, 

But  would  barter  his  brains  to  be  where  I'm — 
And  I'm  well  aware  that  the  beggars  are  right. 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

OCITY  that  is  not  a  city,  unworthy  the  prefix 
Atlantic, 

Forlornest  of  watering-places,   and    thor- 
oughly Philadelphian! 

In  thy  despite  I  sing,  with  a  bitter  and  deep  detesta- 
tion— 
A    detestation  born   of  a    direful    and    dinnerless 

evening, 
Spent  in  thy  precincts  unhallowed — an  evening,  I 

trust,  may  recur  not. 
Never  till  then  did  I  know  what  was  meant  by  the 

word  God-forsaken: 
Thou   its   betokening  hast  taught   me,   being  the 

chiefest  example. 
Thou  art  the  scorned  of  the  gods;  thy  sand  from 

their  sandals  is  shaken; 

Thee  have  they  left  in  their  wrath  to  thy  uninterest- 
ing extensiveness, 

Barren,  and  bleak,  and  big;  a  wild  aggregation  of 
barracks, 

[290] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Miscalled  hotels,  and  of  dovecotes  denominate 
cottages ; 

A  confusion  of  ugly  girls,  of  sand,  and  of  health- 
bearing  breezes, 

With  one  unending  plank-walk  for  a  true  Phila- 
delphia "attraction." 

City  ambitiously  named,  why,  with  inducements 
delusive, 

Is  the  un-Philadelphian  stranger  lured  to  thy 
desert  pretentious  ? 

'Tis  not  alone  that  thy  avenues,  broad  and  unpaved 
and  unending, 

Reecho  yet  with  the  obsolete  music  of  "Pinafore," 

Whistled  in  various  keys  by  the  rather  too  numerous 
negro; 

'Tis  not  alone  that  Propriety — Propriety  too  Phila- 
delphian — 

Over  thee  stretches  an  aegis  of  wholly  superfluous 
virtue; 

That  thou  art  utterly  good;  hast  no  single  vice  to 
redeem  thee; 

'Tis  not  alone  that  thou  art  provincial  in  all  things, 
and  petty; 

And  that  the  dulness  of  death  is  gay,  compared  to 
thy  dulness — 

'Tis  not  alone  for  these  things  that  my  curse  is  to 
rest  upon  thee, 

But  for  a  sin  that  crowns  thee  with  perfect  and 
eminent  badness, 

Sets  thee  alone  in  thy  shame,  the  unworthiest  town 
on  the  sea-coast; 

This:  That  thou  dinest  at  noon,  and  then  in  a  man- 
ner barbarian, 

[291] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Soupless,  and  wineless,  and  coffeeless,  untimely  and 
wholly  indecent, 

As     is     the     custom,     I     learn,     in     Philadelphia 
proper. 

I  rose,  and  I  fled  from  thy  supper.     I  said,  "I  will 
get  me  a  dinner!" 

Vainly  I  wandered  thy  streets.     Thy  eating-places 
ungodly 

Knew  not  the  holiness  of  dinner.     In  all  that  even- 
ing I  dined  not; 

But  in  a  strange,  low  lair,  infested  of  native  me- 
chanics, 

Bolted  a  fried  beefsteak  for  the  physical  need  of 
my  stomach. 

And  for  them  that  have  fried  that  steak,  in  Aides' 
lowest  back-kitchen, 

May  they  eternally  broil,  by  way  of  a  warning  to 
others. 

During  my  wanderings,  I  met  and  hailed  with  de- 
light one  Italian, 

A  man  with  a  name  from  "Pasquale" — the  chap 
sung  by  Tagliapietra; 

He  knew  what  it  was  to  dine;  he  comprehended  my 
yearnings; 

But  the  spell  was  also  on  him,  the  somnolent  spell 
Philadelphian, 

And  his  hostelry  would  not  be  open  till  Saturday 
next;  and  I  cursed  him. 

Now  this  is  not  too  much  to  ask — God  knows! — 
that  a  mortal  should  want  a 

Pint  of  Bordeaux  to  his  dinner,  and  a  small  cigarette 
for  a  climax; 

[292] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  these  things  being  denied  him,  where,  then,  is 

your  civilization  ? 

O  Coney  Island!  of  old  I  have  reviled  and  blas- 
phemed thee, 
For  that  thou  dousest  thy  glim  at  an  hour  that  is 

unmetropolitan ; 
That   thy   frequenters'   feet   turn   townwards    ere 

striketh  eleven, 
When  the  returning  cars  are  filled  with  young  men 

and  maidens, 
Most  of  the  maidens  asleep  on  the  young  men's 

cindery  shoulders — 
Yea,  but  I  spake  as  a  fool,  insensate,  disgruntled, 

ungrateful: 
Thee   will    I   worship    henceforth    in    appreciative 

humility; 
Luxurious  and  splendid  and  urban,  glorious  and 

gaslit  and  gracious, 
Gathering  from  every  land  thy  gay  and  ephemeral 

tenantry, 
From  the  Greek  who  hails  thee  "Thalatta!"  to  the 

rustic  who  murmurs  "My  golly!" 
From  the  Bowery  youth  who  requests  his  sweet- 
heart to  '.'Look  at  them  billers!" 
To   the   Gaul  whom   thy  laughing  waves   almost 

persuade  to  immersion. 
O    Coney    Island,    thou    art    the   weary    citizen's 

heaven — 
A  heaven  to  dine,  not  die  in,  joyful  and  restful  and 

clamful. 

Better  one  hour  of  thee  than  an  age  of  Atlantic  City ! 

H.  C.  Bunner. 

[293  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  FONT  IN  THE  FOREST 


a  prim  little  pond 
At  the  back  of  Beyond, 
And  its  waters  are  over  your  ears; 
It's  a  sort  of  a  tarn 
Behind  Robin  Hood's  barn, 
Where  the  fish  live  a  million  years. 

And  the  mortals  who  drink 

At  its  pebbly  brink 
Are  immediately  changed  into  mullets, 

Whose  heads  grow  immense 

At  their  bodies'  expense, 
And  whose  eyes  become  bulbous  as  bullets. 

But  they  willingly  stay 

Who  have  once  found  the  way, 
And  they  crave  neither  credit  nor  blame; 

For  to  wiggle  their  tails, 

And  to  practise  their  scales, 
Is  enough  in  the  Fountain  of  Fame. 

Herman  Knickerbocker   Viele. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  SIN 

HE  talked  about  the  origin 
Of  sin; 

But  present  sin,  I  must  confess, 
He  never  tried  to  render  less; 

[294] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


But  used  to  add,  so  people  talk, 
His  share  unto  the  general  stock — 
But  grieved  about  the  origin 
Of  sin. 

He  mourned  about  the  origin 

Of  sin; 

But  never  struggled  very  long 
To  rout  contemporaneous  wrong, 
And  never  lost  his  sleep,  they  say, 
About  the  evils  of  to-day — 
But  wept  about  the  origin 
Of  sin. 

He  sighed  about  the  origin 

Of  sin; 

But  showed  no  fear  you  could  detect 
About  its  ultimate  effect; 
He  deemed  it  best  to  use  no  force, 
But  let  it  run  its  natural  course — 
But  moaned  about  the  origin 
Of  sin. 

Samuel  Walter  Foss. 


A   PHILOSOPHER 

ZACK    BUMSTEAD  useter  flosserfize 
About  the  ocean  an'  the  skies; 
An'  gab  an'  gas  f'um  morn  till  noon 
About  the  other  side  the  moon; 
An'  'bout  the  natur  of  the  place 
Ten  miles  beyend  the  end  of  space. 

[295] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


An'  if  his  wife  she'd  ask  the  crank 
Ef  he  wouldn't  kinder  try  to  yank 
Hisself  out-doors  an'  git  some  wood 
To  make  her  kitchen  fire  good, 
So  she  c'd  bake  her  beans  an'  pies, 
He'd  say,  "  I've  gotter  flosserfize." 

An'  then  he'd  set  an'  flosserfize 
About  the  natur  an'  the  size 
Of  angels'  wings,  an'  think,  and  gawp, 
An'  wonder  how  they  make  'em  flop. 
He'd  calkerlate  how  long  a  skid 
'Twould  take  to  move  the  sun,  he  did; 
An'  if  the  skid  was  strong  an'  prime, 
It  couldn't  be  moved  to  supper-time. 
An'  w'en  his  wife  'd  ask  the  lout 
Ef  he  wouldn't  kinder  waltz  about 
An'  take  a  rag  an'  shoo  the  flies, 
He'd  say,  "  I've  gotter  flosserfize." 

An'  then  he'd  set  an'  flosserfize 
'Bout  schemes  for  fencing  in  the  skies, 
Then  lettin'  out  the  lots  to  rent, 
So's  he  could  make  an  honest  cent. 
An'  if  he'd  find  it  pooty  tough 
To  borry  cash  fer  fencin'-stuff? 
An'  if  'twere  best  to  take  his  wealth 
An'  go  to  Europe  for  his  health, 
Or  save  his  cash  till  he'd  enough 
To  buy  some  more  of  fencin'-stufF; 
Then,  ef  his  wife  she'd  ask  the  gump 
Ef  he  wouldn't  kinder  try  to  hump 

[296] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Hisself  to  t'other  side  the  door, 
So  she  c'd  come  an'  sweep  the  floor, 
He'd  look  at  her  with  mournful  eyes, 
An'  say,  "  I've  gotter  flosserfize." 

An'  so  he'd  set  an'  flosserfize 
'Bout  what  it  wuz  held  up  the  skies, 
An'  how  God  made  this  earthly  ball 
Jest  simply  out  er  nawthin'  'tall, 
An'  'bout  the  natur,  shape,  an'  form 
Of  nawthin'  that  he  made  it  from. 
Then,  ef  his  wife  sh'd  ask  the  freak 
Ef  he  wouldn't  kinder  try  to  sneak 
Out  to  the  barn  an'  find  some  aigs, 
He'd  never  move,  nor  lift  his  laigs; 
He'd  never  stir,  nor  try  to  rise, 
But  say,  "  I've  gotter  flosserfize." 

An'  so  he'd  set  an'  flosserfize 
About  the  earth,  an'  sea,  an'  skies, 
An'  scratch  his  head,  an'  ask  the  cause 
Of  w'at  there  wuz  before  time  wuz, 
An'  w'at  the  universe  'd  do 
Bimeby  w'en  time  hed  all  got  through; 
An'  jest  how  fur  we'd  have  to  climb 
Ef  we  sh'd  travel  out  er  time; 
An'  ef  we'd  need,  w'en  we  got  there, 
To  keep  our  watches  in  repair. 
Then,  ef  his  wife  she'd  ask  the  gawk 
Ef  he  wouldn't  kinder  try  to  walk 
To  where  she  had  the  table  spread, 
An'  kinder  git  his  stomach  fed, 

[297] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


He'd  leap  Tor  that  ar  kitchen  door, 
An'  say,  " W'y  didn't  you  speak  afore?" 
An'  when  he'd  got  his  supper  et, 
He'd  set,  an'  set,  an'  set,  an'  set, 
An'  fold  his  arms,  an'  shet  his  eyes, 
An'  set,  an'  set,  an'  flosserfize. 

Samuel  Walter  Foss. 


THE  FATE  OF  PIOUS  DAN 

RUN  down  and  get  the  doctor — quick!" 
Cried  Jack  Bean  with  a  whoop; 
"  Run,  Dan ;  for  mercy's  sake,  be  quick ! 
Our  baby's  got  the  croup." 
But  Daniel  shook  his  solemn  head, 

His  sanctimonious  brow, 
And  said:  "I  cannot  go,  for  I 

Must  read  my  Bible  now; 
For  I  have  regular  hours  to  read 
The  Scripture  for  my  spirit's  need." 

Said  Silas  Gove  to  Pious  Dan, 

"Our  neighbour,  'Rastus  Wright, 
Is  very  sick;  will  you  come  down 

And  watch  with  him  to-night  ? " 
"He  has  my  sympathy,"  says  Dan, 

"And  I  would  sure  be  there, 
Did  I  not  feel  an  inward  call 

To  spend  the  night  in  prayer. 
Some  other  man  with  Wright  must  stay; 
Excuse  me,  while  I  go  and  pray." 

[298] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"Old  Briggs  has  fallen  in  the  pond!" 

Cried  little  'Bijah  Brown; 
"Run,  Pious  Dan,  and  help  him  out, 

Or  else  he  sure  will  drown!" 
"I  trust  he'll  swim  ashore,"  said  Dan, 

"But  now  my  soul  is  awed, 
And  I  must  meditate  upon 

The  goodness  of  the  Lord; 
And  nothing  merely  temporal  ought 
To  interrupt  my  holy  thought." 

So  Daniel  lived  a  pious  life, 

As  Daniel  understood, 
But  all  his  neighbours  thought  he  was 

Too  pious  to  be  good; 
And  Daniel  died,  and  then  his  soul, 

On  wings  of  hope  elate, 
In  glad  expectancy  flew  up 

To  Peter's  golden  gate. 
"Now  let  your  gate  wide  open  fly; 
Come,  hasten,  Peter!     Here  am  I." 

"I'm  sorry,  Pious  Dan,"  said  he, 

"That  time  will  not  allow; 
But  you  must  wait  a  space,  for  I 

Must  read  my  Bible  now." 
So  Daniel  waited  long  and  long, 

And  Peter  read  all  day. 
"Now,  Peter,  let  me  in,"  he  cried. 

Said  Peter,  "I  must  pray; 
And  no  mean  temporal  affairs 
Must  ever  interrupt  my  prayers." 

[299] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Then  Satan,  who  was  passing  by, 

Saw  Dan's  poor  shivering  form, 
And  said,  "My  man,  it's  cold  out  here; 

Come  down  where  it  is  warm." 
The  angel  baby  of  Jack  Bean, 

The  angel  'Rastus  Wright, 
And  old  Briggs,  a  white  angel,  too, 

All  chuckled  with  delight; 
And  Satan  said,  "Come,  Pious  Dan, 
For  you  are  just  my  style  of  man." 

Samuel  Walter  Foss. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  CLABBERHUSES 


HE  was  the  Chairman  of  the  Guild 
Of  Early  Pleiocene  Patriarchs; 
He  was  chief  Mentor  of  the  Lodge 
Of  the  Oracular  Oligarchs; 
He  was  the  Lord  High  Autocrat 

And  Vizier  of  the  Sons  of  Light, 
And  Sultan  and  Grand  Mandarin 
Of  the  Millennial  Men  of  Might. 

He  was  Grand  Totem  and  High  Priest 
Of  the  Independent  Potentates; 

Grand  Mogul  of  the  Galaxy 
Of  the  Illustrious  Stay-out-lates; 

The  President  of  the  Dandydudes, 
The  Treasurer  of  the  Sons  of  Glee; 

[300] 


A   S  at  ire   Anthology 


The  Leader  of  the  Clubtown  Band 
And  Architects  of  Melody. 

ii 

She  was  Grand  Worthy  Prophetess 

Of  the  Illustrious  Maids  of  Mark; 
Of  Vestals  of  the  Third  Degree 

She  was  Most   Potent  Matriarch; 
She  was  High  Priestess  of  the  Shrine 

Of  Clubtown's  Culture  Coterie, 
And  First  Vice-President  of  the  League 

Of  the  Illustrious  G.  A.  B. 

She  was  the  First  Dame  of  the  Club 

For  teaching  Patagonians  Greek, 
She  was  Chief  Clerk  and  Auditor 

Of  Clubtown's  Anti-Bachelor  Clique; 
She  was  High  Treasurer  of  the  Fund 

For  Borrioboolaghalians, 
And  the  Fund  for  Sending  Browning's  Poems 

To  Native-born  Australians. 

ill 

Once  to  a  crowded  social  fete 

Both  these  much-titled  people  came, 
And  each  perceived,  when  introduced, 

They  had  the  self-same  name. 
Their  hostess  said,  when  first  they  met: 

"Permit  me  now  to  introduce 
My  good  friend  Mr.  Clabberhuse 

To  Mrs.  Clabberhuse." 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"Tis  very  strange,"  said  she  to  him, 

"Such  an  unusual  name! — 
A  name  so  very  seldom  heard, 

That  we  should  bear  the  same." 
"Indeed,  'tis  wonderful,"  said  he, 

"And  I'm  surprised  the  more, 
Because  I  never  heard  the  name 

Outside  my  home  before. 

"But  now  I  come  to  look  at  you," 

Said  he,  "  upon  my  life, 
If  I  am  not  indeed  deceived, 

You  are — you  are — my  wife." 
She  gazed  into  his  searching  face, 

And  seemed  to  look  him  through; 
"Indeed,"  said  she,  "it  seems  to  me 

You  are  my  husband,  too. 

"I've  been  so  busy  with  my  clubs, 

And  in  my  various  spheres, 
I  have  not  seen  you  now,"  she  said, 

"For  over  fourteen  years." 
"That's  just  the  way  it's  been  with  me; 

These  clubs  demand  a  sight  "- 
And  then  they  both  politely  bowed, 

And  sweetly  said  "Good-night." 

Sam   Walter  Foss. 


[302] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


WEDDED  BLISS 

OCOME  and  be  my  mate!"  said  the  Eagle 
to  the  Hen; 

"I  love  to  soar,  but  then 
I  want  my  mate  to  rest 
Forever  in  the  nest!" 
Said  the  Hen,  "I  cannot  fly, 
I  have  no  wish  to  try, 
But  I  joy  to  see  my  mate  careering  through  the 

sky!" 

They  wed,  ana  cried,  "  Ah,  this  is  Love,  my  own ! " 
And  the  Hen  sat,  the  Eagle  soared,  alone. 

"O  come  and  be  my  mate!"  said  the  Lion  to  the 

Sheep; 

"My  love  for  you  is  deep! 
I  slay — a  Lion  should, 
But  you  are  mild  and  good!" 
Said  the  Sheep,  "I  do  no  ill — 
Could  not,  had  I  the  will; 

But  I  joy  to  see  my  mate  pursue,  devour,  and  kill." 
They  wed,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  this  is  Love,  my  own ! " 
And  the  Sheep  browsed,  the  Lion  prowled,  alone. 

"O  come  and  be  my  mate!"  said  the  Salmon  to  the 

Clam; 

"You  are  not  wise,  but  I  am. 
I  know  sea  and  stream  as  well; 
You  know  nothing  but  your  shell." 

[303] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


Said  the  Clam,  "I'm  slow  of  motion, 
But  my  love  is  all  devotion, 
And  I  joy  to  have  my  mate  traverse  lake  and 

stream  and  ocean!" 

They  wed,  and  cried,  "Ah,  this  is  Love,  my  own!" 
And  the  Clam  sucked,  the  Salmon  swam,  alone. 
Charlotte  Perkins  (Stetson}  Gilman. 


A  CONSERVATIVE 

THE  garden  beds  I  wandered  by, 
One  bright  and  cheerful  morn, 
When  I  found  a  new-fledged  butterfly 
A-sitting  on  a  thorn — 
A  black  and  crimson  butterfly, 
All  doleful  and  forlorn. 

I  thought  that  life  could  have  no  sting 

To  infant  butterflies, 
So  I  gazed  on  this  unhappy  thing 

With  wonder  and  surprise, 
While  sadly  with  his  waving  wing 

He  wiped  his  weeping  eyes. 

Said  I:  "What  can  the  matter  be? 

Why  weepest  thou  so  sore, 
With  garden  fair  and  sunlight  free, 

And  flowers  in  goodly  store?" 
But  he  only  turned  away  from  mes 

And  burst  into  a  roar. 

[304] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Cried  he:  "My  legs  are  thin  and  few, 

Where  once  I  had  a  swarm; 
Soft,  fuzzy  fur — a  joy  to  view — 

Once  kept  my  body  warm, 
Before  these  flapping  wing-things  grew, 

To  hamper  and  deform." 

At  that  outrageous  bug  I  shot 

The  fury  of  mine  eye; 
Said  I,  in  scorn  all  burning  hot, 

In  rage  and  anger  high, 
"You  ignominious  idiot! 

Those  wings  are  made  to  fly." 

"I  do  not  want  to  fly,"  said  he; 

"I  only  want  to  squirm." 
And  he  dropped  his  wings  dejectedly, 

But  still  his  voice  was  firm: 
"I  do  not  want  to  be  a  fly; 

I  want  to  be  a  worm." 

0  yesterday  of  unknown  lack! 
To-day  of  unknown  bliss! 

1  left  my  fool  in  red  and  black, 

The  last  I  saw  was  this — 
The  creature  madly  climbing  back 
Into  his  chrysalis. 

Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson  Oilman. 


[  305  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


SAME  OLD  STORY 

HISTORY,  and  nature,  too,  repeat  themselves, 
they  say; 
Men  are  only  habit's  slaves;  we  see  it  every 

day. 
Life  has  done  its  best  for  me — I  find  it  tiresome 

still; 
For  nothing's  everything  at  all,  and  everything  is 

nil. 

Same  old  get-up,  dress,  and  tub; 
Same  old  breakfast;  same  old  club; 
Same  old  feeling;  same  old  blue; 
Same  old  story — nothing  new! 

Life  consists  of  paying  bills  as  long  as  you  have 

health; 
Woman  ?     She'll  be  true  to  you — as  long  as  you 

have  wealth; 
Think  sometimes  of  marriage,  if  the  right  girl  I 

could  strike; 

But  the  more  I  see  of  girls,  the  more  they  are  alike. 
Same  old  giggles,  smiles,  and  eyes; 
Same  old  kisses;  same  old  sighs; 
Same  old  chaff  you;  same  adieu; 
Same  old  story — nothing  new! 

Go  to  theatres  sometimes  to  see  the  latest  plays; 
Same  old  plots  I  played  with  in  my  happy  child- 
hood's days; 

[306] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Hero,  same;  same  villain;  and  same  heroine  in  tears, 
Starving,  homeless,  in  the  snow — with  diamonds 
in  her  ears. 

Same  stern  father  making  "bluffs"; 

Leading  man  all  teeth  and  cuffs; 

Same  soubrettes,  still  twenty-two; 

Same  old  story — nothing  new! 

Friend  of  mine  got  married;  in  a  year  or  so,  a  boy! 
Father  really  foolish  in  his  fond  paternal  joy; 
Talked  about  that  "kiddy,"  and  became  a  dreadful 

bore — 
Just  as  if  a  baby  never  had  been  born  before. 

Same  old  crying,  only  more; 

Same  old  business,  walking  floor; 

Same  old  "kitchy — coochy — coo!" 

Same  old  baby — nothing  new! 

Harry  B.  Smith. 


HEM  AND  HAW 

HEM  and  Haw  were  the  sons  of  sin, 
Created  to  shally  and  shirk; 
Hem  lay  'round,  and  Haw  looked  on, 
While  God  did  all  the  work. 


Hem  was  a  fogy,  and  Haw  was  a  prig, 
For  both  had  the  dull,  dull  mind; 

And  whenever  they  found  a  thing  to  do, 
They  yammered  and  went  it  blind. 

[307] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Hem  was  the  father  of  bigots  and  bores; 

As  the  sands  of  the  sea  were  they; 
And  Haw  was  the  father  of  all  the  tribe 

Who  criticise  to-day. 

But  God  was  an  artist  from  the  first, 

And  knew  what  he  was  about; 
While  over  his  shoulder  sneered  these  two, 

And  advised  him  to  rub  it  out. 

They  prophesied  ruin  ere  man  was  made: 

"Such  folly  must  surely  fail!" 
And  when  he  was  done,  "Do  you  think,  my 
Lord, 

He's  better  without  a  tail  ? " 

And  still  in  the  honest  working  world, 
With  posture  and  hint  and  smirk, 

These  sons  of  the  devil  are  standing  by 
While  man  does  all  the  work. 

They  balk  endeavour  and  baffle  reform, 

In  the  sacred  name  of  law; 
And  over  the  quavering  voice  of  Hem 

Is  the  droning  voice  of  Haw. 

Bliss  Carman. 


I 


THE  SCEPTICS 
T  was  the  little  leaves  beside  the  road. 


Said  Grass:   "What  is  that  sound 
So  dismally  profound, 

[308] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


That  detonates  and  desolates  the  air?" 

"That  is  St.  Peter's  bell," 

Said  rain-wise  Pimpernel; 

"He  is  music  to  the  godly, 

Though  to  us  he  sounds  so  oddly, 
And  he  terrifies  the  faithful  unto  prayer." 

Then  something  very  like  a  groan 
Escaped  the  naughty  little  leaves. 

Said  Grass:   "And  whither  track 

These  creatures  all  in  black, 
So  woebegone  and  penitent  and  meek?" 

"They're  mortals  bound  for  church," 

Said  the  little  Silver  Birch; 

"They  hope  to  get  to  heaven, 

And  have  their  sins  forgiven, 
If  they  talk  to  God  about  it  once  a  week." 

And  something  very  like  a  smile 
Ran  through  the  naughty  little  leaves. 

Said  Grass:    "What  is  that  noise 

That  startles  and  destroys 
Our  blessed  summer  brooding  when  we're  tired?" 

"That's  folk  a-praising  God," 

Said  the  tough  old  cynic  Clod; 

"They  do  it  every  Sunday, 

They'll  be  all  right  on  Monday; 
It's  just  a  little  habit  they've  acquired." 

And  laughter  spread  among  the  little  leaves. 

Bliss  Carman. 

[309] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  "NAME" 

WHEN  Hill,  the  poet,  first  essayed 
To  push  the  goose's  quill, 
Scarce  any  name  at  all  he  made: 
(Twas  simply  "A.  H.  Hill.") 

But  as  success  his  efforts  crowned, 

Rewarding  greater  skill, 
His  name  expanded  at  a  bound: 

(It  was  "A.  Killer  Hill.") 

Now  that  his  work,  be  what  it  may, 

Is  sure  to  "fill  the  bill," 
He  has  a  name  as  wide  as  day: 

("Aquilla  Hiller  Hill.") 

Charles  Battell  Loomis. 


"THE   HURT  THAT  HONOUR   FEELS" 

SUGGESTED    BY   THE    ATTITUDE    OF    THE    FRENCH 
PRESS    ON    THE    FASHODA    QUESTION 

r  I  ^HAT  man  is  surely  in  the  wrong, 

And  lets  his  angry  passions  blind  him, 
Who,  when  a  person  comes  along 
Behind  him, 

And  hits  him  hard  upon  the  cheek 

(One  whom  he  took  to  be  his  brother), 
Declines  to  turn  and  let  him  tweak 
The  other. 

[310] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


It  should  be  his  immediate  care, 

By  delicate  and  tactful  dealings, 
To  ease  the  striker's  pain,  and  spare 
His  feelings; 

Nor  should  he,  for  his  private  ends, 

Make  any  personal  allusion 

Tending  to  aggravate  his  friend's 

Confusion. 

For  there  are  people  built  this  way: 

They  may  have  scratched  your  face,  or  bent  it, 
Yet,  if  you  reason  with  them,  they 
Resent  it! 

Their  honour,  quickly  rendered  sore, 

Demands  that  you  should  suffer  mutely, 
Lest  they  should  feel  it  even  more 
Acutely. 

I  knew  a  man  of  perfect  tact; 

He  caught  a  burglar  once,  my  man  did; 
He  took  him  in  the  very  act, 
Red-handed; 

What  kind  of  language  then  occurred  ? 

How  did  he  comment  on  the  jemmy? 
Did  he  employ  some  brutal  word 
Like  "demme"? 

Or  kick  the  stranger  then  and  there, 

Or  challenge  him  to  formal  battle? 
Or  spring  upon  the  midnight  air 
His  rattle? 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Certainly  not!     He  knew  too  much; 

He  knew  that,  as  a  bud  is  blighted, 
Your  burglar's  honour,  at  a  touch, 
Feels  slighted. 

He  saw,  as  men  of  taste  would  see, 

That  others'  pride  should  be  respected; 
Some  people  cannot  bear  to  be 
Detected. 

Therefore  his  rising  wrath  he  curbed, 

Gave  him  a  smile  as  warm  as  may  be, 
Thanked  him  because  he'd  not  disturbed 
The  baby; 

Apologized  for  fear  his  guest 

Might  deem  him  casual  or  surly 
For  having  rudely  gone  to  bed 
So  early. 

The  night  was  still  not  very  old, 

And,  short  as  was  the  invitation, 
Would  he  not  stay  and  share  a  cold 
Collation  ? 

So  was  his  tact  not  found  at  fault; 

So  was  he  spared,  by  tasteful  flattery, 
What  might  have  ended  in  assault 
Or  battery. 

Soft  language  is  the  best — how  true! 

This  doctrine,  which  I  here  rehearse,  '11 
Apply  to  nations :    it  is  u- 
-niversal! 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Thus  England  should  not  take  offence 

When  from  behind  they  jump  upon  her; 
She  must  not  hurt  their  lively  sense 
Of  honour. 

For  plain  opinions,  put  in  speech, 

Might  lead  to  blows,  which  might  be  bloody, 
A  lesson  which  the  press  should  teach 
And  study! 

Owen  Seaman. 


JOHN  JENKINS 

JOHN  JENKINS,  in  an  evil  day,  felt  suddenly 
inclined 
To  perpetrate  a  novel  of  an  unobtrusive  kind; 

It  held  no  "Strange  Adventures"  or  "Mysterious 
Events," 

To  terrify  its  readers  with  exciting  accidents. 

"I   have   never,"  said  John   Jenkins,  "in   my  un- 
eventful life, 

Taken  part  in  revolutions  or  in  sanguinary  strife; 

My  knowledge  of  historic  days  is  lamentably  scant, 

But  the  present  will  afford  me  the  material  I  want." 

In  fact,  the  rash  resolve  with  which  this  foolish 
man  set  out, 

Was  just  to  deal  with  matters  that  he  really  knew 
about. 

He  studied  all  his  characters  with  sympathy  sincere; 

He  wrote,  rewrote,  and  laboured  at  his  chapters 
for  a  year; 

[313] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


He  found  a  trusting  publisher — one  wonders  much 

at  that— 
For  this,  his  first  production,  fell  quite  absolutely 

flat. 

The  critics  were  benign  indeed:  "A  harmless  little 
tale," 

Was  what  they  mostly  called  it.  "While  the  reader 
cannot  fail," 

Another  wrote,  "to  credit  it  with  fluency  and  grace, 

Its  fault  is  that  it's  really  so  extremely  common- 
place." 

A  third  condemned  it  roundly  as  "A  simple,  shame- 
less sham" 

(Finding  that  alliteration  often  does  for  epigram). 

And  as  John  Jenkins  wearily  perused  each  fresh 
review, 

He  shook  his  head,  and  cried,  "Oh,  this  will  never, 
never  do!" 

Undaunted  by  catastrophe,  John  Jenkins  tried 
again, 

And  wrote  his  second  novel  in  a  very  different 
strain; 

In  one  short  month  he  finished  what  the  critic  at  a 
glance 

Pronounced  a  fine  example  of  the  latter-day  Ro- 
mance. 

His  characters  now  figured  in  that  period  sub- 
lime 

Which,  with  convenient  vagueness,  writers  call 
"The  Olden  Time." 


A    Satire   Anthology 


They  said  "Oddsbobs,"  "Grammercy,"  and  other 

phrases  sweet, 
Extracted  from  old  English  as  supplied  in  Wardour 

Street. 
Exciting  was  their  wooing,  constant  battles  did  they 

wage, 
And  some  one  murdered  some  one  else  on  every 

other  page; 
Whereat  the  critics  flung  their  caps,  and  one  and 

all  agreed, 
"Hail  to  the  great  John  Jenkins!     This  is  True 

Romance  indeed!" 

And  so  John  Jenkins  flourishes,  and  scribbles  won- 
drous fast 

A  stringof  such  "romances, "each  exactly  like  the  last; 

A  score  of  anxious  publishers  for  his  assistance  seek; 

His  "Illustrated  Interview"  you  meet  with  every 
week. 

Nay,  more;  when  any  question,  difficult  and  in- 
tricate, 

Perplexes  the  intelligence  of  ministers  of  State, 

The  country  disregards  them  all,  and  where  they 
fear  to  tread, 

Adventurous  John  Jenkins  rushes  boldly  in  instead, 

And  kindly  (in  the  intervals  of  literary  cares) 

Instructs  a  grateful  nation  how  to  manage  its 
affairs ! 

So,  for  all  youthful  authors  who  are  anxious  to 
succeed, 

The  moral  of  John  Jenkins  is — well,  he  who  runs 

may  read.  .     ,          ^,7-, 

Anthony  L.  Dearie. 

[315] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


A  CERTAIN  CURE 

WHEN  I  look  at  my  diligent  neighbours, 
Each  wholly  convinced  in  his  mind 
That  the  fruit  of  his  personal  labours 
Will  be  the  reform  of  mankind, 
When  I  notice  the  bland  satisfaction 

That  brightens  the  features  of  each — 
Commendably  prudent  in  action, 
Though  mighty  in  speech — 

Observing  by  dint  of  persistence 
What  wide  reputation  they  gain, 

The  clew  to  a  happy  existence 
Is  rendered  increasingly  plain, 

Because  the  self-satisfied  feeling 
I  covet  may  quickly  be  had 

By  any  one  owning  (or  stealing) 
A  suitable  fad. 

Shall  I  hotly  oppose  Vivisection  ? 

Grow  warm  on  the  Drainage  of  Flats  ? 
Or  strive  for  the  Better  Protection 

Of  Commons,  Cathedrals,  or  Cats  ? 
Perhaps  in  orations  that  thrill,  I 

For  freedom  (and  fever)  will  fight — 
A  portion  of  small-pox  bacilli 
Is  simply  our  right! 

However,  the  choice  is  a  detail; 

Whatever  the  fad  be  about, 
To  trade  in  it,  wholesale  and  retail, 

To  preach  it,  in  season  and  out, 

[316] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


And  so  to  be  reckoned  a  leader 

(Although  there  be  little  to  lead), 
Yes,  that's,  O  incredulous  reader, 
The  way  to  succeed! 

You  find  that  existence  is  hollow, 

The  fight  for  position  is  hard. 
A  remedy  ?     Yes,  if  you'll  follow 

This  way,  to  the  fad-monger's  yard: 
Come,  here  is  a  hobby — astride  it 
You  settle;  I  tighten  the  girth— 
So-ofF,  and  good-luck  to  you!     Ride  it 
For  all  it  is  worth! 

Anthony  C.  Deane. 


THE  BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE 

A    FRAGMENT    FROM    AN    UNPUBLISHED    EPIC 

HERE,  my  Amanda,  let  us  seat  ourselves; 
Here  let  us  banish  sorrow  from  our  minds, 
By  contemplating  the  delightful  view 
Which  stretches  all  around  us.     And  what  joy 
To  be  reminded  thus,  though  far  from  town, 
Of  that  which  glorifies  our  native  land, 
Our  British  Trade!     Gaze  first  at  yonder  wood: 
On  every  tree  is  tastefully  inscribed 
In  scarlet  letters,  "Use  Niagara  Soap!" 
Turn  to  those  meadows  (at  no  distant  date 
But  one  uninteresting  plain  of  grass), 
Each  bears  a  dozen  hoardings,  striking,  bright, 
Decked  in  resplendent  variegated  hues, 

[317] 


A    S  at  ire   Anthology 


Telling  the  reader  that  Excelsior  Pills 

Cure  influenza;  that  Brown's  Tea  is  best, 

And  costs  no  more  than  one-and-six  the  pound; 

And   that  the  purchaser,  who  fain  would  quaff" 

Smith's  special  brand  of  Sherry,  must  beware 

Of  spurious  imitations.     On  that  hill 

A  grand  gigantic  sky-sign  testifies 

To  Johnson's  Hair  Renewer;  and  beyond 

You  catch  a  glimpse  of  ocean,  where  the  boats 

Proclaim  the  message,  painted  on  their  sails: 

"Robbinson's  Boots  are  Warranted  to  Wear!" 

Oh,  does  not  such  a  view  delight  the  heart  ? 

Yea,  soon  the  time  will  come  when  every  inch 

Of  England  shall  display  advertisements; 

When  newly  taught,  the  birds  shall  add  their  notes 

To  the  glad  chorus,  "Buy  Pomponia  Paste!" 

The  nightingale  shall  sing,  and  all  the  glade 

Echo  her  music — "Buy  Pomponia  Paste!" 

How  great  a  debt  of  thankfulness  we  owe 

To  these  the  benefactors  of  our  time, 

Who  both  contribute  to  the  human  race 

Productions  to  our  ancestors  unknown, 

And  also  glorify  each  rural  scene 

By  the  announcements  of  their  excellence! 

And  how  we  pity  those  of  olden  time 

Who  praised  the  country,  but  so  little  knew 

What  beauty  could  be  added  to  the  scene 

By  the  artistic  advertiser's  aid, 

To  whom  the  hills,  the  meadows,  and  the  woods 

Brought  no  glad  message,  such  as  we  receive, 

Of  Soaps  and  Sugars,  Pens,  Pianos,  Pills! 

Anthony  C.  Deane. 

[318] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


PARADISE 

A   HINDOO    LEGEND 

A  HINDOO  died — a  happy  thing  to  do 
When  twenty  years  united  to  a  shrew. 
Released,  he  hopefully  for  entrance  cries 
Before  the  gates  of  Brahma's  Paradise. 
"Hast  been  through  Purgatory?"  Brahma  said. 
"I  have  been  married,"  and  he  hung  his  head. 
"Come  in,  come  in,  and  welcome,  too,  my  son! 
Marriage  and  Purgatory  are  as  one." 
In  bliss  extreme  he  entered  heaven's  door, 
And  knew  the  peace  he  ne'er  had  known  before. 

He  scarce  had  entered  in  the  Garden  fair, 
Another  Hindoo  asked  admission  there. 
The  self-same  question  Brahma  asked  again: 
"Hast  been  through   Purgatory?"     "No;  what 

then?" 

"Thou  canst  not  enter!"  did  the  god  reply. 
"He  that  went  in  was  no  more  there  than  I." 
"Yes,  that  is  true,  but  he  has  married  been, 
And  so  on  earth  has  suffered  for  all  sin." 
"Married?     'Tis   well;   for   I've    been   married 

twice!" 

"Begone!     We'll  have  no  fools  in  Paradise!" 

George  Birdseye. 


[319] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


HOCH!  DER  KAISER 

ER  Kaiser  of  dis  Vaterland 

Und  Gott  on  high  all  dings  command- 
Ve  two.     Ach!  don't  you  understand? 
Myself — und  Gott. 


D 


Vile  some  men  sing  der  power  divine, 
Mein  soldiers  sing  "Der  Wacht  am  Rhine," 
Und  drink  deir  health  in  Rhenish  wine 
Of  Me— und  Gott. 

Dere's  France,  she  swaggers  all  aroundt; 
She's  ausgespielt,  of  no  account; 
To  much  ve  tink  she  don't  amount; 
Myself — und  Gott. 

She  vill  not  dare  to  fight  again; 
But  if  she  shouldt,  I'll  show  her  blain 
Dot  Elsass  und  (in  French)  Lorraine 
Are  mein — by  Gott! 

Dere's  grandma  dinks  she's  nicht  small  beer; 
Mit  Boers  und  such  she  interfere; 
She'll  learn  none  owns  dis  hemisphere 
But  me — und  Gott! 

She  dinks,  good  Frau,  fine  ships  she's  got, 
Und  soldiers  mit  der  scarlet  goat. 
Ach!    Ve  could  knock  dem!     Pouf!  like  dot, 
Myself — mit  Gott! 

[320] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


In  dimes  of  peace  brebare  for  wars; 
I  bear  de  spear  und  helm  of  Mars, 
Und  care  not  for  a  tousand  Czars, 
Myself — mit  Gott! 

In  fact,  I  humour  efery  vhim, 
Mit  aspect  dark  und  visage  grim; 
Gott  pulls  mit  me,  und  I  mit  Him, 
Myself — und  Gott! 

Rodney  Blake. 

ON  A  MAGAZINE  SONNET 

CORN  not  the  sonnet,"  though  its  strength 

be  sapped, 

Nor  say  malignant  its  inventor  blundered; 
The  corpse  that  here  in  fourteen  lines  is  wrapped 
Had  otherwise  been  covered  with  a  hundred. 
Russell  Hilhard  Loines. 

EARTH 

IF  this  little  world  to-night 
Suddenly  should  fall  through  space 
In  a  hissing,  headlong  flight, 
Shrivelling  from  off  its  face, 
As  it  falls  into  the  sun, 

In   an  instant  every  trace 
Of  the  little  crawling  things — 
Ants,  philosophers,  and  lice, 
Cattle,  cockroaches,  and  kings, 
Beggars,  millionaires,  and  mice, 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Men  and  maggots — all  as  one, 

As  it  falls  into  the  sun — 
Who  can  say  but  at  the  same 

Instant,  from  some  planet  far 
A  child  may  watch  us,  and  exclaim: 

"See  the  pretty  shooting  star!" 

Oliver  Her  ford. 


A  BUTTERFLY  OF  FASHION 

A  REAL  Butterfly,  I  mean, 
With  Orange-Pointed  saffron  wings, 
And  coat  of  inky  Velveteen — 
None  of  your  Fashion-Plated  Things 

That  dangle  from  the  Apron-strings 

Of  Mrs.  Grundy,  or  you  see 
Loll  by  the  Stage-Door  or  the  Wings, 

Or  sadly  flit  from  Tea  to  Tea; 

Not  such  a  Butterfly  was  he; 

He  lived  for  Sunshine  and  the  Hour; 
He  did  not  flit  from  Tea  to  Tea, 

But  gayly  flew  from  Flower  to  Flower. 

One  Day  there  came  a  Thunder-Shower; 

An  Open  Window  he  espied; 
He  fluttered  in;  behold,  a  Flower! 

An  Azure  Rose  with  petals  wide. 

He  did  not  linger  to  decide 

Which  Flower;  there  was  no  other  there. 

[322  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


He  calmly  settled  down  inside 

That  Rose,  and  no  one  said  "Beware!" 

There  was  no  Friend  to  say  "Take  care!" 
How  ever,  then,  could  he  suppose 

This  Blossom,  of  such  Colour  Rare, 
Was  just  an  Artificial  Rose? 

All  might  have  ended  well — who  knows  ? — 
But  just  then  some  one  chanced  to  say: 

"The  very  Latest  Thing!     That  Rose 
In  Paris  is  the  Rage  To-day." 

No  Rose  of  such  a  Tint  outre 

Was  ever  seen  in  Garden  Bed; 
The  Butterfly  had  such  a  Gay 

Chromatic  Sense,  it  turned  his  head. 

"The  Very  Latest  Thing?"  he  said; 

"Long  have  I  sighed  for  something  New! 
O  Roses  Yellow,  White,  and  Red, 

Let  others  sip;  mine  shall  be  Blue!" 

The  Flavour  was  not  Nice,  't  is  true 

(He  felt  a  Pain  inside  his  Waist). 
"It  is  not  well  to  overdo," 
Said  he,  "a  just-acquired  taste." 

The  Shower  passed;  he  joined  in  haste 
His  friends.    With  condescension  great, 

Said  he,  "I  fear  your  time  you  waste; 
Real  Roses  are  quite  out  of  date." 

[323] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


He  argued  early,  argued  late, 

Till  what  was  erst  a  HARMLESS  POSE 

Grew  to  a  Fierce,  Inordinate 
Craving  for  Artificial  Rose. 

He  haunted  Garden  Parties,  Shows, 
Wherever  Ladies  Congregate, 

And  in  their  Bonnets  thrust  his  nose 
His  Craving  Fierce  to  Satiate. 

At  last  he  chanced — sad  to  relate! — 
Into  a  Caterer's  with  his  Pose, 

And  there  Pneumonia  was  his  Fate, 
From  sitting  on  an  Ice-Cream  Rose. 

O  Reader,  shun  the  Harmless  Pose! 

They  buried  him,  with  scant  lament, 
Beneath  a   Common   Brier-Rose, 
And  wrote: 

HERE  LIES  A  DECADENT. 

Oliver  Herford. 


GENERAL  SUMMARY 

WE  are  very  slightly  changed 
From  the  semi-apes  who  ranged 

India's  prehistoric  clay; 
Whoso  drew  the  longest  bow, 
Ran  his  brother  down,  you  know, 

As  we  run  men  down  to-day. 
"Dowb,"  the  first  of  all  his  race, 
Met  the  Mammoth  face  to  face 

[324] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


On  the  lake  or  in  the  cave, 
Stole  the  steadiest  canoe, 
Ate  the  quarry  others  slew, 

Died — and  took  the  finest  grave. 

When  they  scratched  the  reindeer-bone, 
Someone  made  the  sketch  his  own, 

Filched  it  from  the  artist — then, 
Even  in  those  early  days, 
Won  a  simple  Viceroy's  praise 

Through  the  toil  of  other  men. 

Ere  they  hewed  the  Sphinx's  visage, 
Favouritism  governed  kissage, 
Even  as  it  does  in  this  age. 

Who  shall  doubt  the  secret  hid 
Under  Cheops'  pyramid 
Was  that  the  contractor  did 

Cheops  out  of  several  millions? 
Or  that  Joseph's  sudden  rise 
To  Comptroller  of  Supplies 
Was  a  fraud  of  monstrous  size 

On  King  Pharaoh's  swart  Civilians  ? 

Thus,  the  artless  songs  I  sing 
Do  not  deal  with  anything 

New  or  never  said  before. 
As  it  was  in  the  beginning, 
Is  to-day  official  sinning, 

And  shall  be  for  evermore. 

Rudyard  Kipling. 

[325] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE  WORKSHOPS 

T  THEN  the  flush  of  a  new-born  sun  fell  first 
VV  on  Eden's  green  and  gold, 

Our  father  Adam  sat  under  the  Tree  and 
scratched  with  a  stick  in  the  mould; 
And  the  first  rude  sketch  that  the  world  had  seen 

was  joy  to  his  mighty  heart, 

Till  the  Devil  whispered  behind  the  leaves,  "It's 
pretty,  but  is  it  Art?" 

Wherefore  he  called  to  his  wife,  and  fled  to  fashion 

his  work  anew — 
The  first  of  his  race  who  cared  a  fig  for  the  first, 

most  dread  review; 
And  he  left  his  lore  to  the  use  of  his  sons,  and  that 

was  a  glorious  gain 
When  the  Devil  chuckled,  "Is  it  Art?"  in  the  ear 

of  the  branded  Cain. 

They  fought  and  they  talked  in  the  North  and  the 

South,  they  talked  and  they  fought  in  the  West, 
Till  the  waters  rose  on  the  pitiful  land,  and  the  poor 

Red  Clay  had  rest — 
Had  rest  till  that  dank  blank-canvas  dawn  when 

the  dove  was  preened  to  start, 
And  the  Devil  bubbled  below  the  keel,  "  It's  human, 

but  is  it  Art?" 

They  builded  a  tower  to  shiver  the  sky  and  wrench 

the  stars  apart, 
Till   the    Devil   grunted    behind   the    bricks,  "It's 

striking,  but  is  it  Art?" 

[326] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  stone  was  dropped  at  the  quarry-side,  and  the 

idle  derrick  swung, 
While  each  man  talked  of  the  aims  of  Art,  and  each 

in  an  alien  tongue. 

The  tale  is  as  old  as  the  Eden  Tree,  and  new  as 

the  new-cut  tooth, 
For  each   man    knows,   ere  his  lip-thatch   grows, 

he  is  master  of  Art  and  Truth; 
And  each  man  hears,  as  the  twilight  nears  to  the 

beat  of  his  dying  heart, 
The  Devil  drum  on  the  darkened  pane,  "You  did 

it,  but  was  it  Ait?" 

We  have  learned  to  whittle  the  Eden  Tree  to  the 

shape  of  a  surplice-peg; 
We  have  learned  to  bottle  our  parents  twain  in  the 

yolk  of  an  addled  egg; 
We  know  that  the  tail  must  wag  the  dog,  for  the 

horse  is  drawn  by  the  cart; 
But  the  Devil  whoops,  as  he  whooped  of  old,  "It's 

clever,  but  is  it  Art?" 

When  the  flicker  of  London  Sun  falls  faint  on  the 

Club-room's  green  and  gold, 
The  sons  of  Adam  sit  them  down  and  scratch  with 

their  pens  in  the  mould; 
They  scratch  with  their  pens  in  the  mould  of  their 

graves,  and  the  ink  and  the  anguish  start, 
For  the   Devil   mutters   behind   the   leaves,   "It's 

pretty,  but  is  it  Art?" 

[327] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Now,  if  we  could  win  to  the  Eden  Tree  where  the 

Four  Great  Rivers  flow, 
And  the  Wreath  of  Eve  is  red  on  the  turf  as  she 

left  it  long  ago, 
And  if  we  could  come  when  the  sentry  slept  and 

softly  scurry  through, 
By  the  favour  of  God  we  might  know  as  much — as 

our  father  Adam  knew! 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  RUBAIYAT  OF 
OMAR  CAYENNE 

WAKE!   for  the  Hack  can  scatter  into  flight 
Shakespeare  and  Dante  in  a  single  Night! 
The    Penny-a-Liner    is    Abroad,    and 
strikes 
Our  Modern  Literature  with  blithering  Blight. 

Before  Historical  Romances  died, 
Methought  a  Voice  from  Art's  Olympus  cried, 

"When  all  Dumas  and  Scott  is  still  for  Sale, 
Why  nod  o'er  drowsy  Tales,  by  Tyros  tried  ? " 

A  Book  of  Limericks — Nonsense,  anyhow — 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  the  Purple  Cow 

Beside  me  singing  on  Fifth  Avenue — 
Ah,  this  were  Modern  Literature  enow! 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  write  the  Book  that  clears 
To-DAY  of  dreary  Debt  and  sad  Arrears; 

[328] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


To-morrow! — Why,  To-Morrow  I  may  see 
My  Nonsense  popular  as  Edward  Lear's. 

And  we,  that  now  within  the  Editor's  Room 
Make  merry  while  we  have  our  little  Boom, 

Ourselves  must  we  give  way  to  next    month's 

Set- 
Girls  with  Three  Names,  who  know  not  Who  from 

Whom! 

As  then  the  Poet  for  his  morning  Sup 
Fills  with  a  Metaphor  his  mental  Cup, 

Do  you  devoutly  read  your  Manuscripts 
That  Someone  may,  before  you  burn  them  up! 

And  if  the  Bosh  you  write,  the  Trash  you  read, 
End  in  the  Garbage-Barrel — take  no  Heed; 

Think  that  you  are  no  worse  than  other  Scribes, 
Who  scribble  Stuff  to  meet  the  Public  Need. 

So,  when  Wno's-WHO  records  your  silly  Name, 
You'll  think  that  you  have  found  the  Road  to  Fame; 
And  though  ten  thousand  other  Names  are  there, 
You'll  fancy  you're  a  Genius,  just  the  Same! 

Why,  if  an  Author  can  fling  Art  aside, 
And  in  a  Book  of  Balderdash  take  pride, 

Were't  not  a  Shame — were't    not   a  Shame  for 

him 
A  Conscientious  Novel  to  have  tried  ? 

And  fear  not,  if  the  Editor  refuse 

Your  work,  he  has  no  more  from  which  to  choose; 

[329] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  Literary  Microbe  shall  bring  forth 
Millions  of  Manuscripts  too  bad  to  use. 

The  Woman's  Touch  runs  through  our  Magazines; 
For  her  the  Home,  and  Mother-Tale,  and  Scenes 

Of  Love-and-Action,  Happy  at  the  End — 
The  same  old  Plots,  the  same  old  Ways  and  Means. 

But  if,  in  spke  of  this,  you  build  a  Plot 
Which  these  immortal  Elements  has  not, 

You  gaze  To-DAY  upon  a  Slip,  which  reads, 
"The  Editor  Regrets" — and  such-like  Rot. 

Waste  not  your  Ink,  and  don't  attempt  to  use 
That  subtle  Touch  which  Editors  refuse; 

Better  be  jocund  at  two  cents  a  word, 
Than,  starving,  court  an  ill-requited  Muse! 

Strange — is  it  not  ? — that  of  the  Authors  who 
Publish  in  England,  such  a  mighty  Few 

Make  a  Success,  though  here  they  score  a  Hit? 
The  British  Public  knows  a  Thing  or  Two! 

The  Scribe  no  question  makes  of  Verse  or  Prose, 
But  what  the  Editor  demands,  he  shows; 

And  he  who  buys  three  thousand  words  of  Drool, 
He  knows  what  People  want — you  Bet  He  knows! 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  bring  the  News 
Of  Critic  who  reads  Books  that  he  Reviews, 

And  make  the  stern  Reviewer  do  as  well 
Himself,  before  he  Meed  of  Praise  refuse! 

[330] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Ah,  Love,  could  you  and  I  perchance  succeed 
In  boiling  down  the  Million  Books  we  read 

Into  One  Book,  and  edit  that  a  Bit — 
There'd  be  a  WORLD'S  BEST  LITERATURE  indeed! 

Gelett  Burgess. 


BALLADE  OF  EXPANSION 

1899 

r  I  ^IME  was  he  sang  the  British  Brute, 

The  ruthless  lion's  grasping  greed, 
The  European  Law  of  Loot, 
The  despot's  devastating  deed; 
But  now  he  sings  the  heavenly  creed 
Of  saintly  sword  and  friendly  fist, 

He  loves  you,  though  he  makes  you  bleed — 
The  Ethical  Expansionist! 

He  loves  you,  Heathen!     Though  his  foot 

May  kick  you  like  a  worthless  weed 
From  that  wild  field  where  you  have  root, 

And  scatter  to  the  winds  your  seed; 

He's  just  the  government  you  need; 
If  you  object,  why,  he'll  insist, 

And,  on  your  protest,  "draw  a  bead" — 
The  Ethical  Expansionist! 

He'll  take  you  to  him  coute  que  coutel 

He'll  win  you,  though  you  fight  and  plead. 

His  guns  shall  urge  his  ardent  suit, 
Relentless  fire  his  cause  shall  speed. 

[331  ] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


In  time  you'll  learn  to  write  and  read, 
(That  is,  if  you  should  then  exist!) 

You  won't,  if  you  his  course  impede — 
The  Ethical  Expansionist! 


ENVIO 


Heathen,  you  must,  you  shall  be  freed! 

It's  really  useless  to  resist; 
To  save  your  life,  you'd  better  heed 

The  Ethical  Expansionist! 

Hilda  "Johnson. 


SINCE   Bach   so  well   his   clavier  tuned,  since 
Palestrina  wrote  his  Masses, 
Since  Modes  Ecclesiastical  began  to  puzzle 
music-classes, 

All  Anglo-Saxon dom  has  tried,  by  teaching  of  its 
lads  and  lasses, 

The  gift  of  Orpheus  to  acquire, 
Whilst  substituting  for  his  lyre 
The  concert-room's  imposing  choir — string-orches- 
tra, wood,  wind,  and  brasses. 

Halle  in  Free  Trade  Hall  I  heard  when  first  I  took 

the  music  craze  on; 
Later,  in  Sydney,  New  South  Wales,  I  listened  to 

Roberto  Hazon; 

[332] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Berlin's  "Philharmonic,"  which  plays  the  winter 
through  alternate  days  on, 

Took  my  spare  cash  from  time  to  time, 
And  I  may  add,  for  sake  of  rhyme, 
Richter  at   Bradford,   quite  sublime!     Pauer  and 
Colonne  in  the  Satson. 

Lest  I  should  make  the  list  too  short,  and  show  a 
lack  of  erudition, 

I'd  better  mention  Cowan,  who  ruled  at  the  Mel- 
bourne Exhibition, 

Villiers  Stanford,  Auguste  Mannes,  and  Thomas, 
whose  keen  intuition 

Carried  him  westward  from  New  York 
To  the  Metropolis  of  Pork, 

Where,   thanks   to   his   devoted  work,    Beethoven 
found  superb  rendition. 

All  these  I've  heard,  and  others,  too — poor  Seidl, 

who  has  talked  with  Charon; 
Nikisch,  whose  eager  gestures  make  it  difficult  to 

keep  your  hair  on; 
Then  there's  a  chap  whose  name  I've  lost  (I  think 

he  wrote  "The  Rose  of  Sharon"); 

Wood,  of  Queen's  Hall,  in  London  Town; 
Strauss,  for  his  programme-music  known; 
Dozens  whose  brains  the  genius  own  that's  common 

to  the  seed  of  Aaron. 

But  if  good  music  is  the  thing  your  inmost  soul 

would  fain  get  fat  on, 
Avoid,  I  pray,  good  Boston  town,  where,  though  no 

male  may  keep  his  hat  on, 

[333] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  ladies  talk  the  whole  show  through,  and  you 
will  certainly  be  sat  on 

If  you  protest,  for  they  will  say 
"We  have  the  right  to,  if  we  pay 
Each  for  a  seat,  and  chat  away  in  time  with  the 
conductor's  baton." 

Oft   that    October    day    I    see — delightful    month, 
June's   elder  sister; 

The  splendid  Hall  was  opened,  and  a  poem  read 
by  Owen  Wister 

(So  kind  the  Muse,  'twas  plain  to  see  in  Philadel- 
phia he  had  kissed  her). 
Missa  Solennis,  then,  in  B, 
Proud  to  be  in  such  company 

Of  fair-clad  girls,  and  panoply  of  bright  new  paint 
without  a  blister. 

Nowhere  on  this   broad  earth,   I   grant,  is  music 

played  to  such  perfection; 
Even  strict  Apthorp  will  admit  that  false  notes  are 

a  rare  exception; 
But  what  avail  such  wond'rous  play,  when  to  the 

Hall  for  friend's  inspection 

Each  lady  takes  some  little  thing — 
New-purchased   pocket-book,  or  ring — 
Or  in  loud  voice  the  matrons  sing  the  dangers  of 

small-pox  infection. 

To  Mendelssohn's  Scotch  Symphony  I've  heard  of 

Johnny's  scarlet  fever; 
Bizet's  Arlesienne  Suites  I  link  with   Kate's  sore 

throat  that  wouldn't  leave  her; 

[334] 


A    S  at  ire   Anthology 


Oft  to  Wagnerian  strains  I've  heard  eager  dispute 
of  seal  and  beaver, 

To  clasp  fair  Mabel's  dainty  throat, 
Or  make  for  Madge  a  winter  coat, 
As  seen  on  transatlantic  boat,  from  Messrs.  Robin- 
son and  Cleaver. 

Pray  do  not  think  that  Boston  girls  all  talk  such 

feeble  stuff  as  this  is; 
To  Glazounoff's  inspiring  notes  they'll  quote  from 

Phillips's  "Ulysses"; 
To    Massenet's    caressing   phrase    admire    Burne- 

Jones's  long-necked  misses; 

Ask  what  of  Ibsen  you  may  think, 
Of  Nietzsche  or  of  Maeterlinck, 
And  tell,  to  score  of  Humperdink,  Buddha's  most 

esoteric  blisses. 

A  concert  it  is  hard  to  turn  into  a  conversazione, 
Except  with  consequences  which  would  make  the 

softest  heart  quite  stony, 

Unless  'tis  done  in  restaurant  where  foreigners  eat 
macaroni, 

And  greasy  dago  tips  a  stave, 
Or  where  the  blue  Atlantic  wave, 
While  pallid  shop-girls  misbehave,  doth  cool  the 
verdant  Isle  of  Coney. 

Forgive  me  if  I  criticise;   I  love  you  none  the  less, 

Priscilla, 
And  when  the  concert's  o'er,  we'll  go  where  Huyler 

serves  his  best  vanilla; 

[335] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Talk  as  you  will,  I  love  you  still;  I'd  live  with  you 
in  flat  or  villa, 

For  never,  never  you'd  commit 
A  split  infinitive,  and  it 

Is  certain  you  would  not  omit  in  proper  place  the 
French  cedilla. 

Faulkner  Armytage, 


WAR  IS  KIND 

DO  not  weep,  maiden,  for  war  is  kind. 
Because    your  lover  threw  wild  hands  to- 
wards the  sky, 

And  the  affrighted  steed  ran  on  alone, 
Do  not  weep. 
War  is  kind. 

Hoarse,  booming  drums  of  the  regiment, 
Little  souls  who  thirst  for  fight, 

These  men  were  born  to  drill  and  die. 
The  unexplained  glory  flies  above  them, 
Great  is  the  battle-god,  great,  and  his  kingdom— 

A  field  where  a  thousand  corpses  lie. 

Do  not  weep,  babe,  for  war  is  kind. 

Because  your  father  tumbled  in  the  yellow  trenches., 

Raged  at  his  breast,  gulped  and  died, 

Do  not  weep. 

War  is  kind. 

Swift-blazing  flag  of  the  regiment, 
Eagle  with  crest  of  red  and  gold, 

[336] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


These  men  were  born  to  drill  and  die. 
Point  for  them  the  virtue  of  slaughter; 
Make  plain  to  them  the  excellence  of  killing, 

And  a  field  where  a  thousand  corpses  lie. 

Mother,  whose  heart  hung  humble  as  a  button 
On  the  bright  splendid  shroud  of  your  son, 

Do  not  weep. 

War  is  kind. 

Stephen   Crane. 

LINES 

A  LITTLE  ink  more  or  less! 
It  surely  can't  matter? 
Even  the  sky  and  the  opulent  sea, 
The  plains  and  the  hills,  aloof, 
Hear  the  uproar  of  all  these  books. 
But  it  is  only  a  little  ink  more  or  less. 


A  MAN  said  to  the  universe, 
"Sir,  I  exist!" 

"However,"  replied  the  universe, 
"The  fact  has  not  created  in  me 
A  sense  of  obligation." 


E  Wayfarer, 

Perceiving  the  pathway  to  truth, 

Was  struck  with  astonishment. 

It  was  thickly  grown  with  weeds. 

"Ha,"  he  said, 

[337] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


"I  see  that  none  has  passed  here 

In  a  long  time." 

Later  he  saw  that  each  weed 

Was  a  singular  knife. 

"Well,"  he  mumbled  at  last, 

"Doubtless  there  are  other  roads." 


TAVE  you  ever  made  a  just  man?" 

"Oh,  I   have  made   three,"  answered 

God, 

"  But  two  of  them  are  dead, 
And  the  third- 
Listen!   listen, 
And  you  will  hear  the  thud  of  his  defeat." 


/nrvHREE  little  birds  in  a  row 

Sat  musing. 

A  man  passed  near  that  place. 
Then  did  the  little  birds  nudge  each  other. 
They  said,  "He  thinks  he  can  sing." 
They  threw  back  their  heads  to  laugh. 
With  quaint  countenances 
They  regarded  him. 
They  were  very  curious, 
Those  three  little  birds  in  a  row. 


A  YOUTH,  in  apparel  that  glittered, 
Went  to  walk  in  a  grim  forest. 
There  he  met  an  assassin 
Attired  all  in  garb  of  old  days; 

[338] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


He,  scowling  through  the  thickets, 

And  dagger  poised  quivering, 

Rushed  upon  the  youth. 

"Sir,"  said  the  latter, 

"I  am  enchanted,  believe  me. 

To  die  thus 

In  this  mediaeval  fashion, 

According  to  the  best  legends; 

Ah,  what  joy!" 

Then  took  he  the  wound,  smiling, 

And  died,  content. 


A  MAN  saw  a  ball  of  gold  in  the  sky; 
He  climbed  for  it, 
And  eventually  he  achieved  it; 
It  was  clay. 

Now  this  is  the  strange  part: 
When  the  man  went  to  the  earth 
And  looked  again, 
Lo,  there  was  the  ball  of  gold. 
Now  this  is  the  strange  part: 
It  was  a  ball  of  gold. 
Aye,  by  the  heavens,  it  was  a  ball  of  gold. 


as  I  think,"  said  a  man, 
"Or  you  are  abominably  wicked; 
You  are  a  toad." 
And  after  I  had  thought  of  it, 
I  said,  "I  will,  then,  be  a  toad." 

[339] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


UPON  the  road  of  my  life, 
Passed  me  many  fair  creatures, 
Clothed  all  in  white,  and  radiant; 
To  one,  finally,  I  made  speech: 
"Who  art  thou?" 
But  she,  like  the  others, 
Kept  cowled  her  face, 
And  answered  in  haste,  anxiously, 
"I  am  Good  Deed,  forsooth; 
You  have  often  seen  me." 
"Not  uncowled,"  I  made  reply. 
And  with  rash  and  strong  hand, 
Though  she  resisted, 
I  drew  away  the  veil, 
And  gazed  at  the  features  of  Vanity. 
She,  shamefaced,  went  on; 
And  after  I  had  mused  a  time, 
I  said  of  myself,  "Fool!" 

Stephen   Crane. 


FROM  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED 
LIGHTS 

WHAT!   doubt  the   Master  Workman's 
hand 

Because  my  fleshly  ills  increase  ? 
No;  for  there  still  remains  one  chance 
That  I  am  not  His  masterpiece. 

Out  of  all  Epicurus'  train 

I  wonder  which  class  is  sincerest, 

[340] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


The  drones,  or  workers,  who  believe 
This  doctrine  of  "Believe-the-Nearest." 

You  invalids  who  cannot  drink 
Much  wine  or  love,  I  say  to  you, 

"Content  yourselves  with  laughing  at 
The  antics  of  the  fools  who  do." 

Bad-liver  says  each  morning's  sun 

Is  but  to  him  a  juggling  bawd, 
That  opens  up  for  man's  deceit 

Only  another  chest  of  fraud. 

Old  Ash-in-Blood  still  deals  advice 
To  Rose-of-Youth,  and  as  he  deals  it, 

Rolls  piously  his  eyes;  but  ah, 

He  knows  the  pain  whose  body  feels  it. 

In  youth  my  head  was  hollow,  like 
A  gourd,  not  knowing  good  from  ill; 

Now,  though  'tis  long  since  then,  I'm  like 
A  reed — wind-shaken,  hollow  still. 

Said  one  young  foolish  mouth  with  words 

As  many  as  the  desert  sands, 
"My  grandfather  took  daily  baths 

In  rose-water;  just  smell  my  hands!" 

And  now  young  poets  will  arise 

And  burst  earth's  fetters  link  by  link, 

And  mount  the  skies  of  poesy, 

And  daub  Time's  helpless  wings  with  ink! 

[341] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


In  youth  I  wrote  a  song  so  great, 
I  thought  that,  like  a  flaring  taper, 

'Twould  shine  abroad;  and  so  it  did, 
To  the  four  corners  of  the — paper. 

And,  poet,  should  you  think  your  songs 
Must,  or  even  will,  be  read,  • 

Bethink  thee,  friend,  what  fine  springs  rise 
Impotently  from  the  sea's  bed. 

I  marvelled  at  the  speaker's  tongue, 
And  marvelled  more  as  he  unrolled  it. 

How  strange  a  thing  it  was,  and  yet 

How  much  more  strange  if  he  could  hold  it! 

A  little  judge  once  said  to  me, 

"Behold,  my  friend,  I  caused  these  laws!" 
But  I  knew  One  who,  strange  to  say, 

Had  been  the  Causer  of  this  Cause. 

See  fathoms  deep,  midst  gold  and  gems, 
Life  sits  and  weeps  on  ocean's  floor; 

But  though  on  land  no  treasure  is, 

Life  laughs  and  stands.     I'll  stay  on  shore. 

This  mess  of  cracked  ice,  stones  and  bread, 

Of  sweetness  savours  not  a  bit, 
And  yet,  my  friends,  I'm  satisfied, 

For  lo!     I — I — invented  it! 

Frederic  Ridgely  Torrence. 


[342] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


THE  BRITISH  VISITOR 

ARRIV'D,  at  last,  Niagara  to  scan, 
He  walks  erect  and  feels  himself  a  man; 
Surveys  the  cataract  with  a  "critic's  eye," 
Resolv'd  to  pass  no  "imperfections  by" — 
Niag'ra,  wonder  of  the  Deity, 
Where  God's  own  spirit  reigns  in  majesty. 
With  sullen  roar  the  foaming  billows  sweep; 
A  world  of  waters  thunders  o'er  the  steep; 
The  unmingled  colours  laugh  upon  the  spray, 
And  one  eternal  rainbow  gilds  the  day. 
Oh,  glorious  God!     Oh,  scene  surpassing  all! 
"True,  true,"  quoth  he,  "'tis  something  of  a  fall." 
Now,  shall  unpunish'd  such  a  vagrant  band, 
Pour  like  the  plagues  of  Egypt  on  the  land, 
Eyeing  each  fault,  to  all  perfection  blind, 
Shedding  the  taint  of  a  malignant  mind  ? 

From  the  Trollopiad. 


A  MATCH 

IF  I  were  Anglo-Saxon, 
And  you  were  Japanese, 
We'd  study  storks  together, 
Pluck  out  the  peacock's  feather, 
And  lean  our  languid  backs  on 

The  stiffest  of  settees — 
If  I  were  Anglo-Saxon, 
And  you  were  Japanese. 

[343] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


If  you  were  Della-Cruscan, 

And  I  were  A.-Mooresque, 
We'd  make  our  limbs  look  less  in 
Artistic  folds,  and  dress  in 
What  once  were  tunics  Tuscan 
In  Dante's  days  grotesque — 
If  you  were  Della-Cruscan, 
And  I  were  A.-Mooresque. 

If  I  were  mock  Pompeian, 

And  you  Belgravian  Greek, 
We'd  glide  'mid  gaping  Vandals 
In  shapeless  sheets  and  sandals, 
Like  shades  in  Tartarean 

Dim  ways  remote  and  bleak — 
If  I  were  mock  Pompeian, 
And  you  Belgravian  Greek. 

If  you  were  Culture's  scarecrow, 

And  I  the  guy  of  Art, 
I'd  learn  in  latest  phrases 
Of  cither's   quaintest   crazes 
To  lisp,  and  let  my  hair  grow, 

While  yours  you'd  cease  to  part- 
If  you  were  Culture's  scarecrow, 

And  I  the  guy  of  Art. 

If  I'd  a  Botticelli, 

And  you'd  a  new  Burne- Jones, 
We'd  dote  for  days  and  days  on 
Their  mystic  hues,  and  gaze  on 

[344] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


With  lowering  looks  that  felly 
We'd  fix  upon  their  tones — 

If  I'd  a  Botticelli, 

And  you'd  a  new  Burne- Jones. 

If  you  were  skilled  at  crewels, 

And  I  a  dab  at  rhymes, 
I'd  write  delirious  "ballads," 
While  you  your  bilious  salads 
Were  stitching  upon  two  ells 

Of  coarsest  crash,  at  times — 
If  you  were  skilled  at  crewels, 
And  I  a  dab  at  rhymes. 

If  I  were  what's  "consummate," 
And  you  were  quite  "too,  too," 

'Twould  be  our  Eldorado 

To  have  a  yellow  dado, 

Our  happiness  to  hum  at 
A  teapot  tinted  blue — 

If  I  were  what's  "consummate," 
And  you  were  quite  "too,  too." 

If  you  were  what  "intense"  is, 
And  I  were  like  "decay," 

We'd  mutely  muse,  or  mutter 

In  terms  distinctly  utter, 

And  find  out  what  the  sense  is 
Of  this  aesthetic  lay — 

If  you  were  what  "intense"  is, 
And  I  were  like  "decay." 

[  345  1 


A    Satire   Anthology 


If  you  were  wan,  my  lady, 

And  I  your  lover  weird, 
We'd  sit  and  wink  for  hours 
At  languid  lily-flowers, 
Till,  fain  of  all  things  fady, 

We  faintly — disappeared — 
If  you  were  wan,  my  lady, 

And  I  your  lover  weird. 

Punch. 


WANTED— A  GOVERNESS 

A    GOVERNESS  wanted— well  fitted  to  fill 
AA      The  post  of  tuition  with  competent  skill — 

In  a  gentleman's  family  highly  genteel; 
Superior  attainments  are  quite  indispensable, 
With  everything,  too,  that's  correct  and  ostensible; 
Morals  of  pure  unexceptionability; 
Manners  well  formed,  and  of  strictest  gentility. 
The  pupils  are  five— ages,  six  to  sixteen, 
All  as  promising  girls  as  ever  were  seen; 
And  besides  (though  'tis  scarcely  worth  while  to 

put  that  in), 

There  is  one  little  boy,  but  he  only  learns  Latin. 
The  lady  must  teach  all  the  several  branches 
Whereinto  polite  education  now  launches. 
She's  expected  to  speak  the  French  tongue  like  a 

native, 

And  be  to  her  pupils  of  all  its  points  dative. 
Italian  she  must  know  a  fond,  nor  need  banish 
Whatever  acquaintance  she  may  have  with  Spanish; 

[346] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Nor  would  there  be  harm  in  a  trifle  of  German, 
In  the  absence,  that  is,  of  the  master,  Von  Hermann. 
The  harp  and  piano — cela  va  sans  dire — 
With  thorough-bass,  too,  on  the  plan  of  Logier. 
In  drawing  in  pencil,  and  chalks,  and  the  tinting 
That's  called  Oriental,  she  must  not  be  stint  in; 
She  must  paint  upon  paper,  and  satin,  and  velvet; 
And  if  she  knows  gilding,  she's  no  need  to  shelve  it. 
Dancing,  of  course,  with  the  newest  gambades, 
The  Polish  mazurka,  and  best  gallopades; 
Arithmetic,  history  joined  with  chronology, 
Heraldry,  botany,  writing,  conchology, 
Grammar,  and  satin  stitch,  netting,  geography, 
Astronomy,  use  of  the  globes,  and  cosmography. 
'Twere  also  as  well  she  should  be  calisthenical, 
That  her  charges'  young  limbs  may  be  pliant  to 

any  call. 

Their  health,  play,  and  studies,  and  moral  condition 
Must  be  superintended  without  intermission. 
At  home  she  must  all  habits  check  that  disparage, 
And  when  they  go  out  must  attend  to  their  carriage. 
Her  faith  must  be  orthodox,  temper  most  pliable, 
Health  good,  and  reference  quite  undeniable. 
These  are  the  principal  matters — Au  reste, 
Address,  Bury  Street,  Mrs.  General  Peste. 
As  the  salary's  moderate,  none  need  apply 
Who  more  on  that  point  than  on  comfort  rely. 

Anonymous. 


[347] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


LINES  BY  AN  OLD  FOGY 

I'M  thankful  that  the  sun  and  moon 
Are  both  hung  up  so  high, 
That  no  presumptuous  hand  can  stretch 
And  pull  them  from  the  sky. 
If  they  were  not,  I  have  no  doubt 

But  some  reforming  ass 
Would  recommend  to  take  them  down 
And  light  the  world  with  gas. 

Anonymous. 


[  348  ] 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID, 

OR    THE    RIGIDLY    RIGHT-  PAGE 

EOUS Robert  Burns  ....     86 

Advanced  Thinker,  An       .      .   Brander  Matthews      .      .   282 

Aesthete,  The W.  S.  Gilbert  ....   260 

All-Saints Edmund  Yates      .      .      .   237 

Anglicised  Utopia    ....   W.  S.  Gilbert  .      .      .      .252 

Annuity,  The George  Outram     .      .      .156 

Ape  and  the  Lady,  The       .      .  W.  S.  Gilbert  .     .      .      .250 

Ass's  Legacy,  The  ....  Rutebaeuf 7 

Atlantic  City H.  C.  Bunner      .      .      .  290 

BALLADE  OF  EXPANSION  .  .  Hilda  Johnson  .  .  .331 
Ballade  of  Literary  Fame  .  .  Andrew  Lang  .  .  .274 
Ballade  of  Old-Time  Ladies,  A 

(Translated  by  John  Payne)  Francois  Villon  .  .  .11 
Battle  of  Blenheim,  The  .  .  Robert  Southey  ...  97 
Beauties  of  Nature,  The  .  .  Anthony  C.  Deane  .  .317 
Bird  in  the  Hand,  A  ...  Frederick  E.  Weatherly  .  281 
Boston  Lullaby,  A  ....  James  Jeffrey  Roche  .  .  277 
British  Visitor,  The  .  .  .  From  the  Trollopiad  .  .  343 
Butterfly  of  Fashion,  A  .  .  Oliver  Her  ford  .  .  .322 

CACOETHES  SCRIBENDI  .     .      .  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  166 
Carman's  Account  of  a  Law- 
suit, A Sir  David  Lyndsay     .      .  12 

Certain  Cure,  A       ....  Anthony  C.  Deane     .      .  316 

Character  of  Holland,  The  .  Andrew  Marvell  ...  35 
Chorus  of  Anglomaniacs  (From 

"  The  Buntling  Ball ")    .      .  Edgar  Fawcett      .      .      .  275 

Chorus  of  Women  ....  Aristophanes  ....  3 

Christmas  Out  of  Town  .  .  James  Smith  .  .  .  .  103 
Cockle  v.  Cackle  ....  Thomas  Hood  .  .  .140 

Cologne  .......  Samuel  T.  Coleridge  .      .  96 

[351] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Conservative,  A       . 

Constant  Lover,  The    . 

Contentment 

Conundrum  of  the  Workshops, 

The 

Country  House  Party,  A    . 
Country  Squire,  The     . 
Critics 

Cui  Bono? 

Cynical  Ode  to  an  Ultra-Cyni- 
cal Public 


Charlotte  Perkins  (Stetson) 
Oilman 304 

Sir  John  Suckling     .      .     27 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .   171 


Rudyard  Kipling 
Lord  Byron     . 
Tomas  Yriarte 


326 

127 

80 


Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing    164 

Thomas  Carlyle    .      .      .   135 


Charles  Mackay  . 


.  192 


DAMAGES,    Two    HUNDRED 
POUNDS     

Description  of  Holland 
Devil  at  Home,  The  . 
Diamond  Wedding,  The  . 

Distiches 

Dr.  Delany's  Villa  .      .      . 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  The 


William     Makepeace 

Thackeray  .      .      .      .182 
Samuel  Butler       ...     30 
Thomas  Kibble  Hervey    .   149 
Edmund    Clarence    Sled- 
man  240 

John  Hay  ....  264 
Thomas  Sheridan  .  .  52 
John  Dry  den .  .  .  .37 


EARTH 

Eggs,  The     .... 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad 

Dog,  An    .... 
Epistle  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole, 

An 

Epitaph,  An 

Epitaph,  An 

Eternal  London 

Etiquette 

Evolution  of  a  "  Name,"  The  . 
Extracts  from  the  Rubaiyat  of 

Omar  Cayenne    . 


Oliver  Her  ford 
Tomas  Yriarte 

.   Oliver  Goldsmith  . 

Henry  Fielding    . 
George  John  Cayley. 
Matthew  Prior 
Thomas  Moore 
W.  S.  Gilbert  .      .      . 
Charles  Battell  Loomis 


.  Gelett  Burgess 


-  321 

-  83 

-  72 

-  65 
.  64 

-  43 
.  105 

-  254 
.  310 

-  328 


FAITHFUL  PICTURE  OF  ORDI- 
NARY   SOCIETY,    A  ...   William  Cowper  ...     74 
Fame James  Herbert  Morse     .  269 


[352] 


Index    of    Titles 


Fame's  Penny  Trumpet     .      .  Lewis  Carroll       .      .     .  238 

Familiar  Letter  to  Several  Cor- 
respondents, A     ....  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes   .   167 

Fate  of  Pious  Dan,  The     .      .  Samuel  Walter  Foss  .      .   298 

Father-Land      and       Mother- 
Tongue      .      .      ...      .      .  Samuel  Lover        .      .      .   135 

Father  Molloy Samuel  Lover        .      .      .   136 

Five  Lives Edward  Rowland  Sill     .   270 

Font  in  the  Forest,  The     .      .  Herman      Knickerbocker 

Viele 294 

Fragment,  A Grace  Greenwood .      .      .212 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The  .      .  John  O'Keefe  ....     79 

Friday  Afternoon  at  the  Boston 

Symphony  Hall    ....  Faulkner  Armytage    .      .   332 

Friend  of  Humanity  and  the 

Knife-Grinder,  The  .      .      .   George  Canning   .      .      .92 

From  "A  Fable  for  Critics"    .  James   Russell  Lowell     .   201 

From  "As  You  Like  It"   .      .  Shakespeare    .     .      .      .22 

From     "English     Bards     and 

Scotch  Reviewers"    .      .      .   Lord  Byron     .      .      .      .   125 

From  "King  Henry  IV."  .      .  Shakespeare    ....     20 

From  "Love's  Labour's  Lost"  Shakespeare     .      .      .      .21 

From  "The  Devil's  Drive"      .   Lord  Byron     .      .      .      .123 

From  "The  Epistle  to  Dr.  Ar- 

buthnot" Alexander  Pope    ...     60 

From  "  The  Feast  of  the  Poets  "  James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt  1 16 

From  "The  House  of  a  Hun- 
dred Lights" Frederic  Rid gely  Torrence  340 

From  "The  Love  of  Fame"    .  Edward  Young     ...     50 

Furniture  of  a  Woman's  Mind, 

The      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  Jonathan  Swift     ...     48 

GAFFER  GRAY  (FROM  "HUGH 

TREVOR") Thomas  Holcroft       .  .  139 

General  Summary   ....  Rudyard  Kipling       .  .  324 

Giles'  Hope Samuel  T.  Coleridge  .  .  96 

Give  Me  a  Theme  ....  Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  274 

Great  Critics,  The  ....  Charles  Mackay   .      .  .  193 

Greediness  Punished     .      .      .  Friedrich  Ruckert       .  .  130 

HE  AND  SHE Eugene  Fitch  Ware  .     .  272 

Hem  and  Haw Bliss  Carman       .      .     .  307 


[353] 


A   Satire   Anthology 


Hen,  The      .      .      .                     Matthew  Claudius     . 

PAGE 

77 

Hiding  the  Skeleton       .      .      .  George  Meredith  . 
Hoch!  der  Kaiser    ....  Rodney  Blake 
Holy  Willie's  Prayer     .      .      .  Robert  Burns  . 
Horace  Concocting  an  Ode     .   Thomas  Dekkcr    . 
How  to  Make  a  Man  of  Con- 
sequence      Mark  Lemon  . 
How  To  Make  a  Novel     .      .  Lord  Charles  N  eaves  . 
"Hurt     that     Honour     Feels, 
The"   Owen  Seaman      .     . 

.   229 

.  320 

.     88 
-     23 

•   173 
-   15° 

.  310 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  TRUE- 
BORN  ENGLISHMAN    .     .     .  Daniel  Defoe  ....     41 

JOB Samuel  T.  Coleridge  .      .     95 

John  Jenkins Anthony  C.Deane     .      .313 

KING  OF  YVETOT,  THE  (VER- 
SION OF  W.  M.  THACKERAY)  Pierre  Jean  De  Berangcr      109 
Kitty  of  Coleraine   ....  Edward  Lysaght  .      .      .91 

LATEST  DECALOGUE,  THE      .  Arthur  Hugh  Clough     .  200 

Laureate,  The William  E.  Aytoun  .     .   194 

Let  Us  All  Be  Unhappy  To- 
gether   Charles  Dibdin     ...     78 

Life  in  Laconics      ....  Mary  Mapes  Dodge  .      .263 

Lines Stephen  Crane       .      .      .   337 

Lines  by  an  Old  Fogy  .  .  Anonymous  ....  348 
Literary  Lady,  The  .  .  .  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  84 
Lost  Leader,  The  ....  Robert  Browning  .  .  .186 
Love-Letter,  The  ....  Austin  Dobson  .  .  .267 
Lying Thomas  Moore  .  .  .108 

MALBROUCK Translated      by      Father 

Prout 161 

Manly  Heart,  The  ....  George  Wither      ...     26 

Man's  Requirements,  A     .      .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing   .      .      .     .     .      .    163 

Match,  A Punch 343 

Meeting  of  the  Clabberhuses, 

The Samuel  Waller  Foss    .     .  300 

[354] 


Index    of    Titles 


Midges Robert  Bulwer  Lytton       .   230 

Miser,  The Edward  Fitzgerald      .      .166 

Modern  Puffing  System,  The.   Thomas  Moore     .      .      .106 

Modest  Wit,  A Selleck  Osborn      .      .      .112 

Mourner  a   la   Mode,  The     .  John  Godfrey  Saxe    .      .197 
Mr.  Barney  Maguire's  Account 

of  the  Coronation        .      .      .  Richard  Harris  Barham  .    119 
Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the 
Ball  Given  to  the  Nepaulese 
Ambassador  by  the  Peninsu- 
lar and  Oriental  Company .   William  Makepeace 

Thackeray  .      .      .      .    179 
My  Lord  Tomnoddy     .      .      .  Robert  Barnabas  Brough .   227 

NET  OF  LAW,  THE   ....  James  Jeffrey  Roche  .      .  277 

Nora's  Vow Sir  Walter  Scott    ...     94 

Nothing  to  Wear      ....    William  Allen  Butler       .   213 

OF  A  CERTAIN  MAN      .      .      .  Sir  John  Harrington       .  16 

Of  Propriety Charles  Stuart  Calverley.  235 

On  a  Magazine  Sonnet        .      .   Russell  Hilliard  Loines   .  321 

On  Don  Surly Ben  Jonson     ....  24 

On  Johnson John  Wolcott  (Peter  Pin- 
dar)    75 

On  Lytton Alfred  Tennyson  .      .      .  177 

On  Shadwell John  Dryden  ....  38 

On  Smollett Charles  Churchill       .      .  73 

Origin  of  Sin,  The   ....  Samuel  Walter  Foss   .      .  294 

Our  Village Thomas  Hood       .      .      .145 

Ozymandias Percy  Bysshe  Shelley       .  134 

PARADISE.  A  HINDOO  LEGEND  George  Birdseye    .     .     .319 

Pauper's  Drive,  The     .      .      .  Thomas  Noel       .      .      .    175 

Peace:     A  Study     ....  Charles  Stuart  Calverley.   236 

Pelters  of  Pyramids       .      .      .  Richard  Hen  gist  Home.   155 

Philosopher,  A Samuel  Walter  Foss   .      .   295 

Philosopher's  Scales,  The   .      .  Jane  Taylor   .      .      .      .114 

Pious    Editor's    Creed,    The   .  James  Russell  Lowell       .   206 

Poem  to  the  Critic,  The      .      .  Richard  Watson  Gilder   .   274 

Poet  and  the  Critics,  The   .      .  Austin  Dobson      .      .      .   265 

Poet  of  Fashion,  The   .      .      .  James  Smith  ....    101 

Pope  and  the  Net,  The       .      .  Robert  Browning  .      .      .    188 

Positivists,  The Mortimer  Collins  .      .      .   225 

[355] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


Precise  Tailor,  A     . 
Public  Breakfast,  The   . 

QUIDNUNCKIS,  THE 


.  Sir  John  Harrington 
.  Christopher  Anstey    . 


.  John  Gay 


RELIGION  OF  HUDIBRAS,  THE. 

Remedy  Worse  Than  the  Dis- 
ease, The 

Remonstrance,  The 

Reporters 

Revelry  in  India       . 

Review,  A 

Rich  and  Poor;  or,  Saint  and 
Sinner  

Rich  and  the  Poor  Man,  The 
(From  the  Russian  of  Krem- 
nitzer)  .... 


Samuel  Butler 

Matthew  Prior 
Sir  John  Suckling 
George  Crabbe 
Bartholomew  Dowling 
Bayard  Taylor 

.   Thomas  L.  Peacock    . 


.  Sir  John  Bowring 


SAILOR'S  CONSOLATION,  THE.  William  Pitt  . 


Saintship  versus  Conscience 
Same  Old  Story  .... 
Sandys'  Ghost  .... 
Satire  on  Edward  Howard . 


Samuel  Butler. 
Harry  B.  Smith   . 
Alexander  Pope    . 
Charles    Sackville, 

of  Dorset 

John  Cleiveland  . 
Bliss  Carman 
John  Marston 


Earl 


PAGE 

16 


54 


•  45 
.  28 

-  85 

.  210 

.  221 

.  117 


-  132 

-  152 

-  29 
.  306 

57 


.   Charles  Stuart  Calverley. 


Satire  on  the  Scots  . 

Sceptics,  The 

Scholar  and  His  Dog,  The 

Schoolmaster  Abroad  with  His 
Son,  The  .... 

Sick  Man  and  the  Angel,  The.  John  Cay 

Sky-Making Mortimer  Collins 

Sleep  On W.  S.  Gilbert   . 

Sly  Lawyers George  Crabbe 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Clois- 
ter   Robert  Browning 

Song Richard  Lovelace 

Sonnet,  A       .... 

Sorrows  of  Werther 


39 

32 

308 

25 

233 

55 

226 

249 

85 

190 

34 
284 


/,  K.  Stephen       .      .     . 
William  Afakepeace 

Thackeray    .      .      .      .178 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh     .      .     13 


Soul's  Errand,  The 

St.    Anthony's   Sermon   to   the 

Fishes Abraham  d  Sancta-Clara . 

Sympathy Reginald  Heber  . 

[356] 


39 
in 


Index    of    Titles 


PAGE 

THERE  Is  No  GOD 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough 

199 

They  Said     

Edith  M.  Thomas       .     . 

284 

Thought,  A   ...           .      . 

J.  K.  Stephen       .     .     . 

283 

Three  Black  Crows 

John  Byroin    .... 

63 

Thursday      .            

Frederick  Edward  Weath- 

erly  

280 

To  Boswell   

John  Wolcott  (Peter  Pin- 

dar)   

76 

To  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saave- 

dra       

Richard  Kendall  Munkit- 

trick        . 

287 

To  R.  K  

J.  K,  Stephen       .      .      . 

286 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe   .      . 

W.S.Gilbert  .      .     .     . 

240 

To  Woman   

Lord  Byron      .... 

126 

Too  Late       

Fitz-Hugh  Ludlo-w    . 

261 

Tool,  The     

Richard  Watson  Gilder  . 

273 

True  to  Poll       

Frank  C.  Burnand 

247 

Twelve  Articles  

Jonathan  Swift 

46 

Two  Characters       .... 

Henry  Taylor 

*5* 

UNCERTAIN  MAN,  THE 

William  Cow  per  . 

74 

V-A-S-E,  THE     

James  Jeffrey  Roche  . 

278 

Verses  on  Seeing  the  Speaker 

Asleep  in  His  Chair  During 

One  of  the  Debates  of  the 

First  Reformed  Parliament. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed  . 

i54 

WANTED  —  A  GOVERNESS   . 

Anonymous     .... 

346 

War  Is  Kind       

Stephen  Crane       ... 

336 

Wed  

H.  C.  Bunncr. 

289 

Wedded  Bliss     

Charlotte    Perkins    (Stet- 

son) Gilman 

3°3 

Well  of  St.  Kevne,  The       .      . 

Robert  Southey 

99 

What  Will  We"  Do?.      .      .      . 

Robert  J.  Burdette 

272 

What's  In  a  Name? 

Richard  Kendall  Munkit- 

trick        

288 

Widow  Malone,  The 

Charles  Lever 

J73 

Will,  The      

John  Donne    .... 

18 

Wish  for  Length  of  Life,  The. 

Juvenal      

6 

Woman    . 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck   . 

132 

Woman's  Will     

John  Godjrey  Saxc 

196 

Would-be  Literary  Bore,  A    . 

Horace 

A. 

[357] 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS 


ANONYMOUS  PAGE 

Lines  by  an  Old  Fogy 348 

Wanted — A  Governess 346 

ANSTEY,  CHRISTOPHER 

The  Public  Breakfast 67 

ARISTOPHANES 

Chorus  of  Women 3 

ARMYTAGE,  FAULKNER 

Friday  Afternoon  at  the  Boston  Symphony  Hall  .      .   332 

AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  E. 

The  Laureate 194 

BARHAM,  RICHARD  HARRIS 

Mr.  Barney  Maguire's  Account  of  the  Coronation.      .    119 
BIRDSEYE,  GEORGE 

Paradise.     A  Hindoo  Legend 319 

BLAKE,  RODNEY 

Hoch!  der  Kaiser 320 

BOVVRING,  SIR  JOHN 

The  Rich  and  the  Poor  Man  (From  the  Russian  of 

Kremnitzer) 132 

B ROUGH,  ROBERT  BARNABAS 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy 227 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 

Critics 164 

A  Man's  Requirements 163 

BROWNING,  ROBERT 

The  Lost  Leader 186 

The  Pope  and  the  Net 188 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister 190 

BUNNER,   H.    C. 

Atlantic  City 290 

Wed     ...  .289 


A    Satire   Anthology 


BURDETTE,  ROBERT  J.  PAKE 

What  Will  We  Do? 272 

BURGESS,  GELETT 

Extracts  from  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Cayenne   .      .  328 

BURNAND,  FRANK  C. 

True  to  Poll 247 

BURNS,  ROBERT 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or  the  Rigidly  Righteous.  86 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer '  ....  88 

BUTLER,  WILLIAM  ALLEN 

Nothing  to  Wear 213 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL 

Description  of  Holland 30 

The  Religion  of  Hudibras 31 

Saintship  versus  Conscience 29 

BYROM,  JOHN 

The  Three  Black  Crows 63 

BYRON,  LORD 

A  Country  House  Party 127 

From  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers"    .      .  125 

From  "The  Devil's  Drive" 123 

To  Woman 126 

CALVERLEY,  CHARLES  STUART 

Of  Propriety 235 

Peace:     A  Study 236 

The  Schoolmaster  Abroad  with  His  Son  ....  233 
CANNING,  GEORGE 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grinder  .  .  92 
CARLYLE,  THOMAS 

Cui  Bono? 135 

CARMAN,  BLISS 

Hem  and  Haw 307 

The  Sceptics 308 

CARROLL,  LEWIS 

Fame's  Petiny  Trumpet 238 

CAYLEY,  GEORGE  JOHN 

An  Epitaph 64 

CHURCHILL,  CHARLES 

On  Smollett 73 

CLAUDIUS,  MATTHEW 

The  Hen 77 

CLEIVELAND,  JOHN 

Satire  on  the  Scots 32 

[362] 


In  de  x    of    Authors 


CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH  PACE 

The  Latest  Decalogue 200 

There  Is  No  God 199 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR 

Cologne 96 

Giles'  Hope 96 

Job 95 

COLLINS,  MORTIMER 

The  Positivists 225 

Sky-Making 226 

COWPER,  WILLIAM 

A  Faithful  Picture  of  Ordinary  Society    ....     74 
The  Uncertain  Man 74 

CRABBE,  GEORGE 

Reporters 85 

Sly  Lawyers 85 

CRANE,  STEPHEN 

Lines 337 

War  Is  Kind 336 

DEANE,  ANTHONY  C. 

The  Beauties  of  Nature 317 

A  Certain  Cure 316 

John  Jenkins 313 

DE  BERANGER,  PIERRE  JEAN 

The  King  of  Yvetot  (Version  of  W.  M.  Thackeray).  109 
DEFOE,  DANIEL 

Introduction  to  the  True-Born  Englishman  .  .  .41 
DIBDIN,  CHARLES 

Let  Us  All  be  Unhappy  Together 78 

DEKKER,  THOMAS 

Horace  Concocting  an  Ode 23 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN 

The  Love-Letter 267 

The  Poet  and  the  Critics 265 

DODGE,  MARY  MAPES 

Life  in  Laconics 263 

DONNE,  JOHN 

The  Will 18 

DOWLING,  BARTHOLOMEW 

Revelry  in  India 210 

DRYDEN,  JOHN 

The  Duke  of  Buckingham 37 

On  Shadwell        38 

[363] 


A    Satire    Anthology 


FAWCETT,  EDGAR  PAGE 

Chorus  of  Anglomaniacs  (From  "The  Buntling  Ball")  275 

FIELDING,  HENRY 

An  Epistle  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole 65 

FlTZGER"ALD,    EDWARD 

The  Miser 166 

Foss,  SAMUEL  WALTER 

The  Fate  of  Pious  Dan 298 

The  Meeting  of  the  Clabberhuses 300 

The  Origin  of  Sin 294 

A  Philosopher 295 

GAY,  JOHN 

The  Quidnunckis 54 

The  Sick  Man  and  the  Angel 55 

GILBERT,  W.  S. 

The  Aesthete 260 

Anglicised  Utopia 252 

The  Ape  and  the  Lady 250 

Etiquette 254 

Sleep  On 249 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe 240 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON 

Give  Me  a  Theme 274 

The  Poem,  to  the  Critic 274 

The  Tool ' 273 

GILMAN,  CHARLOTTE  PERKINS  (Stetson) 

A  Conservative 304 

Wedded  Bliss 303 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog     ....  72 

GREENWOOD,  GRACE 

A  Fragment 212 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE 

Woman 132 

HARRINGTON,  SIR  JOHN 

Of  a  Certain  Man 16 

A  Precise  Tailor 16 

HAY,  JOHN 

Distiches 264 

HEBER,  REGINALD 

Sympathy in 

[364] 


Index    of    Authors 


HERFORD,  OLIVER  PACE 

A  Butterfly  of  Fashion 322 

Earth 321 

HERVEY,  THOMAS  KIBBLE 

The  Devil  at  Home 149 

HOLCROFT,  THOMAS 

Gaffer  Gray  (From  "Hugh  Trevor") 139 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

Cacoethes  Scribendi 166 

Contentment         171 

A  Familiar  Letter  to  Several  Correspondents  .  .167 
HOOD,  THOMAS 

Cockle  v.  Cackle 140 

Our  Village 145 

HORACE,  QUINTUS  HORATIUS  FLACCUS 

A  Would-Be  Literary  Bore 4 

HORNE,  RICHARD  HENGIST 

Pelters  of  Pyramids  155 

HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH 

From  "The  Feast  of  the  Poets"    .  .   116 


JOHNSON,  HILDA 

Ballade  of  Expansion 331 

JONSON,  BEN 

On  Don  Surly .....24 

JUVENAL 

The  Wish  for  Length  of  Life 6 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD 

The  Conundrum  of  the  Workshops 326 

General  Summary 324 


LANG,  ANDREW 

Ballade  of  Literary  Fame 274 

LEMON,  MARK 

How  to  Make  a  Man  of  Consequence  .  .  .  .  173 
LEVER,  CHARLES 

The  Widow  Malone 173 

LOINES,  RUSSELL  HILLIARD 

On  a  Magazine  Sonnet 321 

LOOMIS,  CHARLES  BATTELL 

The  Evolution  of  a  "Name" 310 


[365] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


LOVER,  SAMUEL  PAGE 

Father-Land  and  Mother-Tongue 135 

Father  Molloy 136 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD 

Song 34 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 

From  "A  Fable  for  Critics" .   201 

The  Pious  Editor's  Creed 206 

LUDLOW,    FlTZ-HUGH 

Too  Late 261 

LYNDSAY,  SIR  DAVID 

A  Carman's  Account  of  a  Lawsuit 12 

LYSAGHT,  EDWARD 

Kitty  of  Coleraine 91 

LYTTON,  ROBERT  BULWER 

Midges 230 


MACKAY,  CHARLES 

Cynical  Ode  to  an  Ultra-Cynical  Public  ....   192 

The  Great  Critics 193 

MARSTON,  JOHN 

The  Scholar  and  His  Dog 25 

MARVELL,  ANDREW 

The  Character  of  Holland 35 

MATTHEWS,  BRANDER 

An  Advanced  Thinker 282 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE 

Hiding  the  Skeleton 229 

MOORE,  THOMAS 

Eternal  London 105 

Lying 108 

The  Modern  Puffing  System 106 

MORSE,  JAMES  HERBERT 

Fame 269 

MUNKITTRICK,    RlCHARD    KENDALL 

To  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra 287 

What's  in  a  Name? 288 


NEAVES,  LORD  CHARLES 

How  to  Make  a  Novel 150 

NOEL,  THOMAS 

The  Pauper's  Drive 175 

[366] 


Index    of    Authors 


O'KEEFE,  JOHN  PAGE 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray 79 

OSBORN,  SELLECK 

A  Modest  Wit 112 

OUTRAM,  GEORGE 

The  Annuity 156 


PEACOCK,  THOMAS  L. 

Rich  and  Poor;  or,  Saint  and  Sinner 117 

PITT,  WILLIAM 

The  Sailor's  Consolation 152 

POPE,  ALEXANDER 

From  "The  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot"    ....     60 

Sandys'  Ghost 57 

PRAED,  WINTHROP  M. 

Verses  on  Seeing  the  Speaker  Asleep  in  His  Chair  Dur- 
ing one  of  the  Debates  of  the  First  Reformed  Par- 
liament   154 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW 

An  Epitaph 43 

The  Remedy  Worse  Than  the  Disease      ....     45 
PROUT,  FATHER 

Malbrouck 161 

PUNCH 

A  Match 343 


RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER 

The  Soul's  Errand 13 

ROCHE,  JAMES  JEFFREY 

A  Boston  Lullaby 277 

The  V-A-S-E 278 

The  Net  of  Law 277 

RUCKERT,  FRIEDRICH 

Greediness  Punished 130 

RUTEBCEUF 

The  Ass's  Legacy 7 

\ 

SACKVILLE,  CHARLES,  EARL  OF  DORSET 

Satire  on  Edward  Howard 39 

SANCTA-CLARA,  ABRAHAM  A 

St.  Anthony's  Sermon  to  the  Fishes 39 

[367] 


A    Satire   Anthology 


SAXE,  JOHN  GODFREY  PAGE 

The  Mourner  a  la  Mode 197 

Woman's  Will 196 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER 

Nora's  Vow 94 

SEAMAN,  OWEN 

"The  Hurt  that  Honour  Feels" 310 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM 

From  "As  You  Like  It" 22 

From  "Love's  Labour's  Lost" 21 

From  "King  Henry  IV." 20 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE 

Ozymandias 134 

SHERIDAN,  RICHARD  BRINSLEY 

The  Literary  Lady 84 

SHERIDAN,  THOMAS 

Dr.  Delany's  Villa 52 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND 

Five  Lives 270 

SMITH,  HARRY  B. 

Same  Old  Story 306 

SMITH,  JAMES 

Christmas  Out  of  Town 103 

The  Poet  of  Fashion 101 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim 97 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne 99 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE 

The  Diamond  Wedding 240 

STEPHEN,  J.  K. 

To  R.  K 286 

A  Sonnet 284 

A  Thought 283 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN 

The  Constant  Lover 27 

The  Remonstrance 28 

SWIFT,  JONATHAN 

The  Furniture  of  a  Woman's  Mind 48 

Twelve  Articles 46 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD 

A  Review „ 221 

TAYLOR,  HENRY 

Two  Characters 151 

[368] 


Index    of    Authors 


TAYLOR,  JANE  PAGE 

The  Philosopher's  Scales 114 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED 

On  Lytton      1 177 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE 

Damages,  Two  Hundred  Pounds 182 

Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball  Given  to  the  Ne- 
paulese  Ambassador  by  the  Peninsular  and  Orien- 
tal Company 179 

Sorrows  of  Werther 178 

THOMAS,  EDITH  M. 

They  Said 284 

TORRENCE,  FREDERIC  RIDGELY 

From  "The  House  of  a  Hundred  Lights"     .      .      .  340 
TROLLOPIAD,  FROM  THE 

The  British  Visitor 343 

VIELE,  HERMAN  KNICKERBOCKER 

The  Font  in  the  Forest 294 

VILLON,  FRANCOIS 

A  Ballade  of  Old-Time  Ladies  (Translated  by  John 
Payne) n 

WARE,  EUGENE  FITCH 

He  and  She 272 

WEATHERLY,  FREDERICK  EDWARD 

A  Bird  in  the  Hand 281 

Thursday 280 

WITHER,  GEORGE 

The  Manly  Heart 26 

WOLCOTT,  JOHN  (PETER  PINDAR) 

On  Johnson 75 

To  Boswell 76 

YATES,  EDMUND 

All-Saints 237 

YOUNG,  EDWARD 

From  "The  Love  of  Fame" 50 

YRIARTE,  TOMAS 

The  Country  Squire 80 

The  Eggs 83 


[369] 


A 
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